


the heart is an arrow

by andrewminyards



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt Whump, Growing Up Together, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Identity Reveal, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Whump, M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Young Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Young Jaskier | Dandelion, jaskier braids geralt's hair and they're cute smol bbys, reunited and it hurts:(
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: Geralt had a best friend, once. Julian had been the first person to choose Geralt - he’d been Geralt’s first friend, his first love, but Geralt had hurt him unforgivably.Now, when Jaskier chatters at him, smiling at him without a hint of fear in his scent, Geralt tries not to think about how Jaskier reminds him too much of Julian. They have the same crooked smile, the same ringing laugh, and they both touch Geralt in the same way, gentle and caring.But then comes the dragon hunt - and Geralthatesthat he always does this. When people care about him, and when he cares about them in return, he inevitably pushes them away. Julian and Jaskier had bothchosenhim, but all Geralt ever does ishurt. When will he learn that destruction is all that he’s capable of?Or:Geralt and Jaskier meet in a forest near Kaer Morhen when they’re children. They grow up together as best friends, then as lovers, but when Geralt leaves for the Path, it tears them apart.Decades later, in a tavern in Posada, they find each other again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 303
Kudos: 701
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #003





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> we need more childhood friends au in this fandom so i'm here to deliver, smol bby jaskier and geralt but also tons of sadness and heartbreak bc they're dumbs (this is very self indulgent)

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?” Geralt spits, teeth bared as he rounds on Jaskier, eyes flashing with anger.

It’s too familiar. The hateful tone, the furious eyes, the harsh words, and Jaskier wills himself not to burst into tears at the still-painful memory from decades ago, a memory that is almost an exact mirror of what’s happening now.

“The child surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing,” Geralt’s face, a face that Jaskier had always found beautiful, even when they’d been no more than children, twists into a cruel sneer, “it would be to take _you_ off my hands.”

It all hits too close to heart, and Jaskier is thrown back to a moment in a clearing, decades ago, both of them young and naive. Geralt had sneered at him, spat harsh, biting words at him, taking Jaskier’s heart out and crushing it underneath his boot, and Geralt’s face, contorted with anger and hatred, is too close, too close to the painful memory, and Julian - _Jaskier_ reels back, hand reaching up instinctively to clutch at the key that rests against his heart.

_Something to remember me by._

Jaskier stutters something, his brain not comprehending the words that come out of his mouth, as fractured as the pieces of his heart that now lies, crushed, on the top of a mountain. He stumbles along the road, into the forest, not quite sure where he’s going, only knowing that he needs to get away, _away_. He lets the forest guide him, lets the branches caress him in comfort as the leaves whisper directions to him, lets a small fox brush up against his legs and a small robin to chirp sweetly in his ear.

Finally, the forest guides him to a clearing, deep in the forest where no one will be able to find him, a clearing that brings back so many memories, a clearing that _isn’t his clearing_ , but is achingly familiar all the same, and Jaskier sits down heavily on a fallen log, dropping his head into his hands.

He tastes something bitter in his mouth as he lets the tears fall freely, the trees bending to his will and muffling his sobs.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so hurt if this had been the only time Geralt had ever yelled at him like that, with such utter vitriol in his eyes and with such searing fury in his voice. Perhaps, if Jaskier hadn’t experienced such heartbreak before, he would’ve reacted better, understanding that Geralt had been angry and lashing out, and he would’ve waited until Geralt calmed down so that they could travel again.

But Jaskier has experienced it once before, a long time ago.

Being broken at the hands of Geralt of Rivia. _Twice_.

Jaskier loves Geralt. He’d loved Geralt since they were no more than children, meeting in the forest at six years of age. He’d loved Geralt since the soft, chaste kiss they’d shared at sixteen. He’d loved Geralt when Geralt had pushed him away at nineteen, the blow of the words ringing in his ears. He’d loved Geralt since he found Geralt in Posada again, dark and silent in the corner of a tavern.

He loves Geralt. He truly does. 

But as Jaskier nurses his heart, broken twice over by the same man, he wonders bitterly if it was ever worth it.

* * *

Geralt meets the boy in the woods when he is six. 

He had snuck out of Kaer Morhen, and is now wandering the nearby forest. It’s against Vesemir’s rules, but Geralt had been so _bored_. He wants to start properly training, like the older witchers do, with their big swords and their cool magic, but _no_ , Vesemir keeps making him sit at the library and learn, and books are _boring_!

So he’d decided to sneak out, using all his stealth skills, and now he has successfully escaped, and he really enjoys wandering through the trees. Everything looks the same, and everywhere he looks, all he sees are trees, it’s great!

… Maybe he’s lost. But he can find his way back! He can track his footsteps through the snow.

Geralt turns around, and realises that his footsteps have been covered by a fresh blanket of snow, and he almost cries, but he doesn’t, because he’s a big boy, so his eyes do _not_ get wet.

He can still get back. The trees might all look the same, but Geralt can remember which path he’d taken. He tries to retrace his steps, and he’s rather proud of himself since it feels like he’s probably going in the right direction - oh. It’s the third time he’s passed this clearing, with the tall tree that has branches bent weirdly.

Geralt scrubs at his eyes, sniffing. No - he _can’t_ be lost! He has to get back to Kaer Morhen, or Vesemir is going to be _so_ mad.

“Are you lost?” A young voice pipes up from behind him, and Geralt jumps, yelping. “Whoa, don’t be surprised, it’s alright!”

Turning around, Geralt meets a pair of wide silver eyes, set in a face that looks to be about Geralt’s own age. Geralt studies the boy in front of him. He’s a bit taller than Geralt, with messy brown hair that’s sprinkled with snowflakes. Geralt’s gaze lingers on the pointed ears for a moment, before he looks the other boy straight in the eyes.

“Hey!” The other boy beams, revealing sharp teeth, and sticks out a hand. “I’m Julian. What’s your name?”

His mother had told him not to trust strangers. But his mother had abandoned him, and Geralt decides that she’s _wrong_.

“I’m Geralt,” he mumbles. Julian keeps his hand out, looking at Geralt expectantly, and Geralt slowly raises a hand to clasp Julian’s.

“Nice to meet you, Geralt!” Julian exclaims. His eyes are bright as he tugs at Geralt’s hand, and Geralt doesn’t feel the cold anymore. “I have a feeling that we’ll be great friends!”

Julian brings Geralt back to the edge of the forest, where he can find his way back to Kaer Morhen, chattering excitedly all the way, asking him about the large fortress that looms in the mountains, and Geralt answers haltingly.

It’s the first time someone has asked to be his friend.

After that, Geralt sneaks out every so often to meet Julian. When Geralt asks why Julian can’t visit him in Kaer Morhen, Julian pouts petulantly.

“Ma won’t let me go too far,” Julian grumbles, poking his finger into the soft snow on the ground. “She says I have responsibilities, or whatever.”

So Geralt visits Julian at least once a week, and they spend the day together until night falls in the clearing where they’d met. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to warm up to Julian, who’s bubbly and cheerful, his bright mood infectious, and Geralt finds his lips twisting up more often than not when he’s around the other boy.

Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever felt so - so free. When he chases Julian around the forest, weaving around the trees as gleeful shrieks fill the air, Geralt feels so _light_ , so unlike the boring, tedious days at Kaer Morhen that drag on and on. When he’s with Julian, Geralt smiles and laughs, finding endless topics to chat with Julian about, and when they’re tired of talking, they chase each other around the forest, tackling the other to the ground before jumping up and starting the chase again.

They grow closer over several years, and Geralt is fairly certain that Julian isn’t human, what with how he seemingly lives in the forest, and his pointed ears and sharp teeth, but he doesn’t care. Witchers are supposed to kill monsters, but Julian _isn’t_ a monster. He’s Geralt’s best friend, and though Geralt has befriended Eskel and they get along swimmingly, Eskel isn’t Julian. Eskel trains with him, and they tussle with each other, they talk, but Geralt never has more fun than he does around Julian.

Geralt complains about how _boring_ Kaer Morhen is. He doesn’t dare do that in the keep, knowing that his teachers have enhanced hearing, but with Julian, he doesn’t fear anyone listening in, and Julian nods along with him, face twisted up in indignance at how _boring_ adults are. 

“I can’t believe they expect us to do all that - adult life stuff,” Julian agrees, laying his head in Geralt’s lap. “All those books and words and they keep telling us what to do, I hate it!”

“I know!” Geralt cries. He prods Julian, who squirms under his touch. “They think that because they’re old and wise that we need to listen to them. I just think they’re _stupid_.”

He can’t do any of this at Kaer Morhen, and Geralt is so grateful that he has Julian as his best friend. One day, Julian’s hair is tied into some beautiful style when Geralt sees him, and Geralt stares, fascinated. 

“Julek, Julek, how did you do _that_?”

“My mom braided it for me, do you like it?” Julian asks, sharp teeth glinting as he grins proudly. 

“It looks nice,” Geralt says, slightly jealous at how _pretty_ Julian looks. “Can you do it for me?”

Julian looks at Geralt’s short hair with a frown. “You’ll need to grow it out,” he announces. “I also don’t know how to do it, but I can ask ma to teach me!”

Geralt bounces slightly in excitement. He wants to have nice hair like Julian. “I’ll grow out my hair, then,” he rambles as he thinks of how pretty his hair would look with these braids in them. “And you can learn how to braid, and once my hair is long enough, you can do it for me!”

And so Geralt grows out his hair, and in a few months, Julian is cooing over how long and soft his hair is, and Geralt feels weirdly proud as Julian separates his hair into small sections. 

“It’s hard, but I can do some simple braids,” Julian explains. Geralt winces when Julian tugs a little too hard, and Julian squeaks, “Sorry! I’m not very good, but if you keep your hair long, I can practise on you!”

The first braid that Julian makes isn’t very good. It’s messy, lacking the intricate interweaving of the braid Julian had worn that other day, but Geralt keeps it anyway, deflecting questions of how he’d learned to braid when he returns to Kaer Morhen. As time passes, Julian learns more styles, and his hands become more practised as he tries his braids on Geralt, until he’s good enough to do a complicated braid with flowers woven in between. 

Geralt loves it, and Julian says that he looks pretty. Geralt refuses to take off the braid for days, even when Vesemir demands that he take out the flowers, but he stubbornly keeps the flowers until they’re wilted, and doesn’t unravel the braid until his hair is in serious need of a wash. 

It becomes a bit of a routine for Geralt to sit down in front of Julian as the other boy braids his hair, both of them chattering away excitedly. The days he spends with Julian are the best days of his week, and Geralt just _knows_ that they’ll be friends forever. 

This is disrupted when Geralt turns thirteen, and the older witchers bind him to a table, potions and beakers on a table next to him. 

The Trials begin, and Geralt screams for what feels like days, his body convulsing as waves and waves of pain tear through him. It’s horrible, and it feels like forever before it ends.

And then Geralt looks into a mirror, and his breath catches as golden eyes, pupils slitted like a cat’s, stare back at him, and. His hair. 

His hair, a rich auburn, smooth and thick, a colour he’d always been proud of. His hair, which Julian loves to run his fingers through, pulling it into an intricate braid. His hair, which is now white as the snow that falls around Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had always known what would happen after the Trials. He’d _known_ what would happen to his eyes, but not his hair, and he almost sobs at the loss of the auburn, a colour which had mixed so well with the flowers that Julian likes to braid into his hair. He recoils from his reflection, wondering what Julian would say when he sees Geralt’s hair, coarse and white. 

He doesn’t leave Kaer Morhen for over a month.

Geralt throws himself into training. Now that the Trials are done, Vesemir is finally letting them train fully, pushing them as far as their mutations allow. Geralt is stronger and faster than ever before, far better than his fellow witchers, and he dives headfirst into his training, letting it push his thoughts out of his mind.

He doesn’t think of his appearance, warped and inhuman. He doesn’t think of Julian, who must be wondering where he is. He doesn’t think of Julian, and how he will undoubtedly react when he sees what Geralt has become.

But one day, weeks and weeks after the Trials, Geralt stares out of his window, at the rolling mountains and the sprawling forests, and before he knows it, he’s sneaking out of Kaer Morhen, the route ingrained into him over years and years of sneaking out the same way, and he takes the familiar trail into the forest, towards the clearing, every step becoming lighter as the weeks of ruthless training lift off his shoulders.

He passes the tree with the crooked branches, and steps into a familiar clearing. Sitting on a stone, staring forlornly into the distance, is Julian, who whips his head around when a twig snaps underneath Geralt’s boot.

For a moment, Julian stares at him, and dread writhes in Geralt’s stomach as he thinks, that’s it. That’s when Julian’s face will twist up in disgust, backing away from Geralt and disappearing into the trees.

But Julian does none of that. He crosses the clearing in quick strides, and wraps Geralt into a tight hug. “Geralt,” Julian breathes, and Geralt is helpless to do anything but return the embrace, sinking into the familiar warmth of Julian’s arms. Gods, he’d missed Julian’s touch _so much_. “I was _so worried_ , thank the gods you’re okay.”

Geralt buries his face into Julian’s shoulder, noting absently that he’s slightly taller than Julian now. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “I just. The Trials.”

“Ah,” Julian says, sadness colouring his tone. Geralt had told Julian about the Trials weeks before, trembling in fear at what would happen to him, and Julian had pulled him into a hug that had lasted for ten minutes. “I understand.” 

Julian squeezes Geralt tighter, holding on for a moment before letting go, gently tugging Geralt across the clearing. “Sit down,” he urges, and Geralt obeys, humming in contentment as Julian’s fingers weave into his hair. Julian touches him without reservation still, uncaring that his hair is so utterly changed from the colour it was before. “My cousin taught me a new braid, and I’ve been _dying_ to try it out on your gorgeous, luscious hair. Oh, and let me tell you what she did after…”

As Julian chatters away, Geralt relaxes under his hands, under Julian’s skilful fingers that gently tug his hair into a beautiful, intricate braid, his gentle touch a reprieve from the weeks of brutal training, and Geralt lets himself lean back and close his eyes as he lets Julian’s voice lull him into the first real sense of peace he’s felt since the trials.

Their routine resumes after that. At first, Geralt is tentative with his touches, aware of enhanced strength as a result of the Trials, but when he clearly lets Julian win in one of their games, Julian snaps, “Stop treating me like glass, Geralt.”

When Geralt tries to protest, Julian smacks his shoulder petulantly. “You’re not going to break me,” he sighs. “I’m not human, and you know that. Your witcher strength isn’t going to hurt me.”

It’s the first time that either of them have acknowledged what Julian is, and Geralt blinks for a moment, taken aback, then he quirks his mouth up in a grin, mischievous and playful.

“You’re it!” Geralt blurts out, pushing Julian on the shoulder and dashing through the trees. He runs at full speed, ducking under branches and leaping over fallen trunks, and lets out an exhilarated laugh. An answering laugh rings out from behind him, melodic and bright as Julian gives chase, and just like that, they’re back to being best friends.

As Geralt’s training grows more vigorous, Julian’s responsibilities (Geralt still doesn’t know what Julian does - he doesn’t even know what Julian _is_ ) also increase, and though they still meet every week, they don’t get to spend as much time together as they used to, and Geralt hates it. Julian does too, and every time they meet, they make the most of it, and Geralt thinks that he won’t know what to do when he loses this.

And then he does. When he’s sixteen, he’s told that he’s good enough to go on the Path, and while part of him is ecstatic at finally becoming a fully-fledged witcher, a deeper part of him despairs at needing to leave Julian behind. Julian has his own responsibilities in the forest, or wherever he lives, and if he can’t go to Kaer Morhen to visit Geralt, then he certainly can’t accompany Geralt on the Path, and Geralt hates the thought of being parted from his best friend.

The Path won’t be easy, he knows, and Geralt can’t imagine going through it without Julian at his side.

When he tells Julian, Julian lowers his head, thumping it against Geralt’s shoulder. “I want to go with you,” he murmurs as Geralt reaches out an arm to encircle his waist. “But I’m not allowed to leave, and I hate it.”

“I’ll be back every winter,” Geralt tries to reason, but judging by Julian’s heavy exhale, they both know it’s not the same. They’d grown up together - they’ve been best friends for a decade, Geralt realises, and something in his chest burns at the knowledge that he has to part with Julian. 

“We’ve always known that you wouldn’t stay,” Julian says, his bright voice more subdued than Geralt has ever heard. “I’ll still see you occasionally, at least.”

Both of them are somber that day, something muted in the atmosphere as they bask in each other’s companionship, knowing that Geralt will be leaving next week.

“I’ll come to see you before I leave,” Geralt promises. The sun is setting, and he needs to get back to Kaer Morhen before Vesemir catches him, but he’s reluctant to disentangle himself from Julian’s flailing arms. 

Julian huffs as he heaves himself off Geralt. “You’d better.” He pokes Geralt in the stomach, and Geralt leaps back with a yelp as Julian bursts into laughter, the bright sound piercing through the gloomy atmosphere that had been hovering around them all day.

If Geralt’s touch lingers as they part, well, that’s his own business.

A few days later, Geralt leaves Kaer Morhen, decked out in full armour, swords strapped to his back. He both looks forward to and dreads the Path, eager to fulfil his duty as a witcher, but the knowledge of how humans will treat him weighs on his shoulders, and the thought of being away from Julian from _so long_ makes his heart ache.

What is he going to do without his best friend?

Geralt splits off from the main road and ducks into the forest. The forest is now as familiar to him as Kaer Morhen is, having spent years with Julian exploring every nook and cranny, and he navigates the endless trees easily, cutting through to the clearing.

“Geralt!” Geralt startles at the sudden sound, hands reaching for his swords before he recognises the voice and relaxes. A blur runs straight into him, and the next moment, Julian is upon him.

“Look at you, pup, all decked out in your witchery gear and your - glory, or whatever,” Julian teases, his voice light even as it wavers slightly. He’d taken to calling Geralt ‘pup’ a few months ago, pointing out how fitting the name would be for Geralt given that he’s from the Wolf school, and taking joy in how Geralt would grumble every time.

“Much better than what _you’re_ wearing,” Geralt points out dryly. He’s lying, of course. Julian’s clothes are always finely tailored, and though Geralt has no idea what material his outfits are made of, he knows that the fabric must be of high quality, and they suit Julian, complementing the elegance of his silver eyes and pointed ears.

Julian doesn’t reply, instead pulling Geralt into a crushing hug, and Geralt returns it with equal fervour, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent tears from leaking out.

Nearly a year without Julian. 

“I’ll miss you so much,” Julian murmurs, sounding choked up. Geralt hums against him in wordless agreement, letting out a disgruntled sound as Julian starts wiggling against him, one of his arms moving around.

“Stop,” Geralt grumbles as Julian’s arm continues moving around, as if he’s reaching for something. “Julek -”

Julian lets out a triumphant noise, followed by the clink of metal against metal, and reluctantly, Geralt pulls back to see Julian dangling two identical chains in one hand, each with a key attached to the chain.

Geralt furrows his brows as he stares at the two chains that Julian is holding. “What’s this?”

Julian purses his lips momentarily, gaze flashing sideways for a brief moment. “You’re leaving for a long time, Geralt,” he says softly, fidgeting with the chains in his hands. “This is - it’s special, among my people. It’s, uh, it’s my parting gift to you. Something to remember me by, to remind you of me.”

Julian reaches around Geralt, clasping the chain around his neck. The coolness of the metal rests against Geralt’s neck, and he reaches up to grasp at the key in his hands. It looks ordinary, nothing special about it, but somehow, as he studies the swirls and patterns engraved on the key, Geralt knows that this is the best present Julian could give him.

“I’d ask you to stay longer,” Julian murmurs as he clasps his own chain around his neck, and Geralt burns with a fierce happiness that they’re _matching_ , that he’ll have a piece of Julian even when he’s on the other side of the Continent. “But I know you can’t stay long.”

“I wish I could,” Geralt replies, earnest.

“I know you do, pup.” And then Julian reaches up, grasping the back of Geralt’s neck gently, and leans in, his lips brushing softly against Geralt’s for a second before he pulls away. There’s a tender smile on his face as he takes in Geralt, frozen in shock, and he laughs softly.

“Go, Geralt. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

Geralt surges forward and brings Julian in for another kiss. It’s his first ever kiss, well, second if he counts the one earlier, and it’s messy and they fumble around each other with uncertain hands and they laugh as they bump into each other, and Geralt hates that they’re doing this just before they need to part, but he can’t bring himself to regret a single second of it.

When Julian pulls back, silver eyes bright, pale cheeks flushed, it takes everything in Geralt to not lean in to claim his lips again. He lets his eyes roam over Julian’s face, committing every inch of it to memory, and takes a step back.

If he doesn’t leave now, he never will.

“See you soon, pup,” Julian says softly as he curls his fingers around the key that rests on his chest.

“See you soon, Julek,” Geralt echoes as he backs away, mimicking Julian’s gesture as he clutches the key.

One more second. Geralt lets himself look for one more second, before turning away and heading for the trees.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He reaches the treeline, and, unable to help himself, he turns back, wanting, _needing_ , to take one last look at Julian before he disappears for a year, and he meets Julian’s eyes, silver and bright with longing, and he almost, _almost_ runs back into his arms. He wants to forget his destiny as a witcher, and stay here with Julian forever.

Geralt swallows, and lifts a hand in farewell, before he strides out of the clearing.

One year. One year, and he can see Julek again.

* * *

Spring brightens into summer, which fades into autumn, and now, the wind that brushes past Julian brings a whisper of cold, a hint of the winter to come. It’s been a long year, a year of longing and yearning and _waiting_ , but winter is coming, and Julian can’t wait for Geralt’s return.

His wolf. His pup. His best friend. The year had been hell for Julian, with no escape from his princely responsibilities. Geralt had always been the only part of Julian’s life that was free, and without Geralt, his life had fallen into the monotonous routine of a dull royal existence, an endless cycle of court pettiness and performative etiquette and simpering and word games, and Julian had chafed against every second of it.

But now, winter is creeping over the land, and the witchers of Kaer Morhen are returning home. Already, a few witchers have passed through the forest on their way back to Kaer Morhen, and each time a witcher enters the forest, Julian bounces with excitement, ready to greet Geralt, only to slump back as he realises that no, this isn’t Geralt.

Julian is lounging on his bed, half-heartedly reading a book on herbs when he feels it - the familiar tug that tells him that someone has entered the forest. Julian snaps the book shut, tossing it carelessly to the side as he pulls aside the veil between the realms, focusing his power as he steps into his and Geralt’s clearing.

The clearing is a familiar and welcome sight. Over the past year, Julian had come to the clearing as often as he could, even though there’d been a hollow, aching absence without Geralt. The clearing had provided the escape he so desperately needed, and for many hours, Julian had laid on his back in a warm patch of grass, watching the clouds drift across the sky as memories of Geralt flashed through his mind, memories that both soothed his loneliness and strengthened it.

Julian stretches out with his magic, and when his magic brushes against a presence that Julian knows as well as his own, it’s all he can do to not cry in excitement. It’s Geralt. Geralt’s _here_.

Julian waits, leaning against the rough bark of a tree as he waits for Geralt to approach, but when nearly an hour passes and Geralt still hasn’t come to find him, Julian scowls in impatience.

Surely Geralt couldn’t have forgotten how to navigate the forest in a year.

He tries to determine Geralt’s location, fondly rolling his eyes at Geralt’s idiocy. Perhaps Geralt had been away too long, and had forgotten the way. Well, Julian is more than happy to help him regain his bearings, and - oh. Geralt isn’t in the forest anymore.

Julian frowns. He’s sure that he had definitely sensed Geralt’s presence earlier, but now he’s gone, and he wonders why Geralt isn’t coming to find him first. Perhaps he’s tired, and wants to return to Kaer Morhen to settle down before he meets Julian. Yes, that makes sense.

He slips back into his own realm, and waits.

Geralt doesn’t come find him for days, and Julian wonders if something has happened, worry a tight fist around his heart. He squeezes his hands around the key that always hangs around his neck, trying to reassure himself that Geralt is _fine_ , he’s just overwhelmed from his first year on the Path, he’ll come see Julian soon.

After a week, Geralt’s presence enters the forest again, and Julian springs up, ready to greet his pup. He steps through the veil between the worlds, and leans against one of the trees in the clearing, waiting for Geralt to appear. Sure enough, Geralt’s presence moves closer, and Julian almost vibrates out of his skin in anticipation.

It’ll be the first time seeing his best friend in nearly a _year_.

A figure appears at the edge of the clearing, and Julian shrieks in excitement, launching himself at Geralt and wrapping his arms around his witcher. 

“Geralt!” Julian cries, relishing in the warmth of Geralt’s body against his. “I missed you, pup.”

When Geralt doesn’t return the hug, Julian frowns and pulls away. Geralt looks tired, face worn and weary as he looks down at Julian, lips drawn into a tight line. His arms hang limp at his sides, and his shoulders are stiff, unresponsive to Julian’s enthusiastic greeting.

Julian’s stomach drops. Had Geralt grown tired of him when he’d been on the Path?

He withdraws his hands, wringing them together. “So, uh, how’ve you been?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Julian forces himself not to fidget as he waits for Geralt’s answer. Finally, Geralt responds with a small hum.

“What’s that?” Julian prods, aware that if Geralt is in a mood, this will likely anger him, but he wants a _reaction_ out of Geralt, damn it. It seems that life on the Path has not been kind to his best friend. “Don’t ‘hmm’ me, I haven’t seen you for a year, and you must have so many stories to tell me!”

When Geralt doesn’t make a move to answer, Julian ignores the cold slither of dread and pulls Geralt to their usual seat. Maybe some gentle contact will coax Geralt out of his shell.

Geralt still looks weary, and he doesn’t utter a word, but he sits down obediently in front of Julian. Julian runs a hand through long white hair, realising with displeasure that Geralt must have lived roughly over the past year, unable to properly take care of his thick, beautiful hair, but no matter. Julian patiently works through the tangles, hands gentle as he smooths out the knots and snarls in Geralt’s hair.

Slowly, Geralt has started to relax in front of him, shoulders loosening as his head droops slightly, and Julian smiles to himself as he starts weaving Geralt’s hair into a braid. Geralt will be fine. He just needs to recover from whatever he’d seen on the Path, and Julian will help him through that.

Geralt stays mostly quiet for the rest of the day, responding with hums and grunts and the occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but when they part, some of the weariness has faded from his face, and some of the softness has returned to his eyes as Julian hugs him before he leaves.

Over the winter, they return to their routine, with Geralt visiting Julian at least once a week. Geralt is closed off at first, and Julian burns with hatred at whoever had decided to send witchers out on the Path at such a young age, but he forces it down, focusing on providing what comfort he can for Geralt. Slowly, he coaxes Geralt out of his shell, until Geralt starts returning Julian’s embraces and starts opening up, talking about his time away from Julian, until one day, Geralt pulls Julian in for a tender kiss.

They’re almost back to how they used to be. Almost. There’s the addition of the kisses, which Julian has absolutely _no_ complaints about, but something is off. Geralt starts opening up, talking and smiling and sometimes even laughing, a sound that is so rare now that Julian cherishes every single laugh, but something is different, and Julian can’t quite put his finger on it.

It’s how Geralt shies away from his touch sometimes, or how he sometimes snaps at Julian to shut up. It’s how Geralt often falls back into hums and grunts, and how he rarely ever initiates contact with Julian. Julian tells himself that it’s normal. Geralt had told him about what he’s seen on the Path, the terrible monsters and the cruelty and hatred of humans, and he’s understandably traumatised, especially since he’s only seventeen, and Julian knows that such experiences would change a person.

He gives Geralt space when he needs to, letting his voice trail off when he senses that Geralt is getting uncomfortable. He looks to see if Geralt is willing before he touches him, not wanting to initiate contact if it’s unwanted.

Julian knows, he _knows_ that people change. And yet, as Geralt pushes Julian back from their hug and regards him with an unreadable look in his eyes, Julian wonders if Geralt has changed so much that he doesn’t want to be Julian’s friend anymore.

But there are days when they’re almost back to how they used to be. There are days when Geralt greets Julian with a bright smile, so radiant that Julian is hopeless against the force of it. There are days when Geralt is the one initiating contact and starting conversations, when he demands that Julian cuddle him and kisses Julian impossibly sweetly. There are days when Geralt laughs with wild abandon, golden eyes vibrant as Julian stores the wonderful sound in his heart.

These are the days that Julian clings to, as sparse as they are. Over the winter, Geralt alternates between opening up to Julian and pushing him away, and Julian adapts to Geralt’s mood, letting Geralt decide how their meetings go, even as it hurts to see Geralt look at Julian like a stranger.

As spring approaches, frost slowly giving way to small blooms, Geralt is distant with Julian more often than not, even as Julian gently tries to break down his walls. Geralt has to return to the Path soon, and Julian tries to provide what comfort he can before they’re parted again.

Geralt is distancing himself from Julian because of the Path, Julian tells himself. Geralt still cares for Julian, still thinks of him as a best friend. Julian still means something to him.

Even as he thinks about them, Julian finds himself believing these words less and less.

And when Geralt leaves for the Path with nothing more than a chaste kiss and a curt farewell, eyes barely meeting Julian’s, Julian wonders if he’ll even see Geralt next winter.

Another year passes. His mother makes him take on more responsibility within the court, and Julian hates it. He hates the petty squabbles of nobles, hates their tiring word games as they dance around the truth, hates the way they simper and bow to him, trying to curry his favour, and he longs for the clearing, longs to have Geralt’s arms around him as stories spill from his lips.

When winter finally returns, Julian is beside himself with anticipation at seeing Geralt again. The key had been a heavy weight all year, a constant reminder of the fact that Geralt is gone, and it almost seems lighter now, at the prospect of once again being reunited with him.

Julian’s joys are dashed when Geralt only visits him five times over the winter, each time more distant than the last, and Julian tries to ease Geralt with gentle touches and sweet words, but Geralt is stiff under his hands, golden eyes closed off as they dart around the clearing, never fully relaxing in Julian’s presence.

That winter, Julian doesn’t hear a single laugh from Geralt.

When Geralt leaves Kaer Morhen that spring, Julian almost expects Geralt not to come meet him, but when Geralt’s presence enters the forest, Julian goes to find him, hoping that perhaps the prospect of not seeing Julian for a year would soften Geralt, make him more receptive to Julian.

But Geralt stands stiffly at the edge of the clearing as he grunts out a goodbye, and Julian realises with dread that his eyes are shuttered, _wary_ as Julian approaches him. Julian halts a small distance away from Geralt, unable to take the look in his eyes that seems almost _distrustful_.

Never had Geralt looked at him in such a way.

Before Geralt turns away, his gaze lingers on Julian’s ears, long and pointed in a way that’s so obviously inhuman, and as he walks away, Julian stares at his retreating back as his heart aches, the heavy weight of the key pressing against his chest.

Geralt is a witcher. Witchers kill monsters.

Julian doesn’t let himself think of Geralt. It hurts too much, but he keeps the key around his neck in a foolish bid for hope that perhaps this winter, Geralt will return to him. He dedicates himself to his princely duties, even as he hates every second of it, letting his mother drown him with diplomacy lessons and magic lessons and combat lessons. There is not a moment of free time in his days, and Julian prefers it, knowing that it takes his mind off Geralt.

No one steps foot into the forest that winter, and Julian loads himself with courtly duties and princely lessons until he’s completely overwhelmed. He exhausts himself to the bone, so much that even his mother demands that he take a break, but he refuses, not wanting to give himself space to think about how Geralt hadn’t even tried to find him this winter.

He’s in the middle of a magic lesson, focusing his power on growing plants out of nowhere, when Geralt’s presence slips past the forest, and the plants wilt as Julian stutters out an excuse to his teacher.

“I - uh, I’m not feeling all that well.” Julian stumbles towards the door as his teacher blinks at him, blindsided by this turn of events. “Tell mother that I’ll be in bed for the rest of the day, I really need to go, I think I’m really sick -”

Once he’s out of the door, he quickly checks that no one’s watching and rushes into the mortal realm. Something sours in Julian as he realises that it’s springtime already, and Geralt hadn’t once come to visit him. With how Geralt is currently at the edge of the forest, not making a move to enter deeper, Julian suspects that even now, Geralt isn’t planning on meeting him, merely passing through the forest on his way down from Kaer Morhen.

Anger wars with confusion as Julian follows the whispers of the trees to where Geralt is. Sure enough, he’s following the main road, dressed for travel as he rides atop a horse, and Julian drinks in the sight of him. 

Over the past year, Geralt had truly grown and matured, shoulders broadened from constant training, the last vestiges of childhood replaced by sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Geralt has always been beautiful, but adulthood has brought something more to his features, and not for the first time, Julian resents the aging process of his own kind. He’s still baby-faced despite being the same age as Geralt, and it will likely take a decade for him to look like an adult.

But there’s a weariness in Geralt’s features, a weariness that Julian has come to associate with the Path, and Julian aches to reach out and soothe the lines of tension from that beautiful face, but Geralt has made it clear that it’s not his place. Not anymore.

For a moment, Julian wonders if he should leave Geralt alone, leave him to his life as a witcher. They’ll go separate ways, living the life that was destined for them - Geralt following the Path, and Julian taking up his crown, but as Julian watches Geralt from the shadows, thinking of the years and years they’d spent together, Julian knows that he can’t let go so easily.

“Geralt,” he calls, stepping out from between the trees. Geralt’s shoulders tense, and he pulls his horse to a halt.

“Julian,” Geralt returns evenly, not meeting his eyes, and a painful jolt runs through Julian. Geralt had always called him Julek, an affectionate nickname that Julian had reserved for him. He’d never called him Julian, and now…

“I haven’t seen you all winter,” Julian says, leaning against a tree. He masks his hurt by painting a bright smile on his face as he chirps, “I’ve missed you, pup.”

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt growls, and it takes everything in Julian not to flinch back at the harshness of his voice.

There’s a thick lump in Julian’s throat, and Julian swallows heavily. “Right,” he whispers. “Uh. How’ve you been?”

Geralt stares at him. His golden eyes are cold, harsh in a way that has never been directed at Julian. There’s no warmth in his gaze, none of the fondness that it used to hold, and his face is expressionless, mouth set in a tight line.

Geralt looks at Julian like he’s a stranger.

“You should leave,” Geralt rumbles, his face twisting into a sneer.

“Geralt -”

“I don’t want to see you again,” Geralt snarls, and Julian flinches back, the words driving a spear through his heart. “I don’t know what you are, Julian, but I’m a witcher. It’s my duty to hunt monsters. If I ever see you again…”

Geralt trails off, but the threat is obvious in his sharp eyes, and Julian tries to reason, “I’m not a monster, Geralt, I’ve never hurt you, I’ve never hurt anyone, please -”

Faster than Julian can blink, there’s a silver sword pointed at him, and Geralt’s grip is unwavering as he spits, anger coating his voice, “Leave.” 

A single word, a word that hurts more than a stab to the heart ever could. Julian opens his mouth to plead, but Geralt’s eyes narrow dangerously, flashing with fury as he takes a step towards Julian, sword pointed at his heart, and Julian slips back into the shadows of the forest, running aimlessly through the trees as tears burn at his eyes.

_Monster, monster, monster._

_I don’t want to see you again._

He races blindly through the forest, unsure of what he’s running from. It reminds him of the games he used to play with Geralt when they were younger, when the forest had been their playground, and Julian stops and slumps against a tree as he heaves out a sob.

_Leave._

He’s not a monster. Is he? He’s never hurt anyone. Some of his brethren are tricky and mischievous, but they never inflict anything more than harmless pranks on humans, and hell, humans don’t even _know_ they exist. Even witchers think that the fae are nothing more than fairy tales and myths.

Julian isn’t a monster. But when Geralt had looked at him, cold gaze burning into Julian as he unsheathed his sword, he sure as hell had felt like one.

Julian abandons his duties for the next few weeks, staying curled in bed. His mother thinks he’s sick, and fusses over him, but he can’t bring himself to care, can’t bring himself to look beyond the repeating memories of Geralt’s last words to him.

He grips the key tightly in his hand. He wonders if Geralt has thrown his away, and fresh sobs roll out of him at the thought. Years ago, Julian had told Geralt that the key was a parting gift, but he’d never told Geralt the true meaning of giving a key to someone. These keys are sacred to the fae. Every newborn gets a pair of keys, forged especially for them, and they keep the keys with them throughout their lives, until they meet someone who they want to dedicate their life to. They give one of the keys to the other person, and the key is a symbol of devotion, of dedication, of love.

Julian had given Geralt the key after a decade of friendship. He’d hoped that he and Geralt would be best friends for the rest of their lives, and he’d foolishly placed his heart in Geralt’s hands, giving Geralt his key. Now, as Julian clutches at the key, it burns and burns and burns, a painful reminder that Geralt had thrown Julian’s devotion away, pointing a sword at him and calling him a monster.

How foolish he’d been.

Julian returns to his life, going through the motions. A fog seems to have settled over everything, and Julian completes his tasks listlessly, unable to muster up even a drop of hate for the tedious work he’s doing. He feels numb, doing everything that his mother tells him without complaint, and his mother trills in excitement at how obedient her son is. Before, Julian would have chafed at her commands, but now, he can’t bring himself to care.

Naively, he still holds out hope that perhaps Geralt will realise his mistake and return. Every winter, Julian keeps watch over the forest, and every week, he sits for hours in the clearing, hoping desperately that Geralt will come find him.

He never does.

Decades pass like this, as Julian goes to their clearing every winter, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping for someone who will never come. Witchers pass through the forest every winter, but they are never Geralt. No one steps foot into the clearing, and the forest becomes empty, empty of joy and laughter as time passes.

Julian never takes the key from his neck, keeping it close to heart. No matter how much time has passed, part of him still aches for Geralt. It’s foolish, he knows, but he can’t bear to part with it, with the last reminder that he used to have someone who he’d loved, and who had loved him back.

Time marches on, and Julian grows tired of his life as the crown prince. He longs to escape, longs to explore the world, and when he finally breaks and pleads with his mother, she lets him go.

“You have worked yourself very hard over the past few decades, my son,” she says, and Julian blinks, surprised. She smiles at his confusion. “I have been waiting for you to ask this question for a long time. Yes, Julian, take a break, as long as you please. The court will hold up while you’re gone.”

And so, with his mother’s blessing, Julian ventures into the mortal world, glamour held firmly in place, masking his inhuman silver eyes and his too-sharp features, hiding his deadly teeth and his pointed ears. He wanders the Continent, fascinated by humans, who burn so brightly in their short lives. He learns about music, and is utterly enamoured by the lute.

He goes to Oxenfurt and takes up a new name. Jaskier immerses himself in music, and for the first time since Geralt had left, he _feels_.

His music is enchanting and beautiful, and crowds flock to him as he strums his lute, voice carrying through auditoriums and taverns and streets. Jaskier loses himself in the joy of music, and the haze that Geralt had left lifts, and he finds himself in a bright, vibrant world, full of colour and laughter, and Jaskier dives headfirst into it.

One day, he hears whispers about the Butcher of Blaviken, hushed gossip amongst humans and the trees murmuring to him, and Jaskier aches to find Geralt and comfort him, because no matter what Geralt had done to him, Jaskier knows that Geralt is _good_ , the kindest person he’s ever met, and there must be more to the rumours of his heartlessness and brutality, but.

It’s not his place anymore.

So Jaskier sings across the Continent, dancing his way through taverns and inns, determinedly _not_ thinking about his former best friend, until he’s in a small, dingy tavern in Posada one day, and the trees murmur to him, _he’s here, master, he’s here_.

His fingers freeze on his lute strings as his gaze falls on the dark figure of a man in the corner, so different after years of being apart, yet so heartachingly familiar. Jaskier stutters through the rest of the song, his mind miles away even as bread is pelted at him, and he walks towards Geralt.

It’s a bad idea. Geralt had hurt him once, and if he recognises Jaskier, he might even make good on his promise from decades ago. But Jaskier’s glamour is foolproof, and he knows that no being on the Continent will be able to pick up his magic since the fae have kept their magic secret. He also looks different - his glamour has hidden the inhuman characteristics that Geralt might identify him by, and since Geralt had left, Jaskier had finally grown into adulthood, and he looks nothing like the young fae boy who’d woven flowers into his witcher’s hair.

It’s a bad idea. It really is. But Jaskier has _missed_ Geralt so much, even though his heart still aches at the thought of him, and well, if he can’t be friends with Geralt as Julian, the prince of the fae, then maybe he can try as Jaskier, the unassuming human bard.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says, leaning against a pillar, and his heart seizes as, for the first time in decades, familiar golden eyes rise to meet his.

Gods, those eyes. He’s missed them so much, and the memories come rushing back, the fondness in Geralt’s eyes at Julian’s babbling, the tenderness as they’d kissed, the coldness as he’d levelled a sword at Julian, and Jaskier is pulled from his thoughts as Geralt rumbles, “I’m here to drink alone.”

Geralt tries to push him away, but Jaskier, reassured that Geralt doesn’t suspect his identity, clings to him, unwilling to let him go again. He sees the pain and loneliness in Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier hates how much the Path has worn Geralt down over the years, hating that he’d never been able to help. But he’s here now, and he vows not to leave Geralt, even if he tries to push Jaskier away. He won’t let Geralt be lonely again.

He plays the helpless human bard, powerless and fragile, doing everything he can to prevent Geralt from realising that he’s not human. He’s in no real danger from cuckolded husbands and terrifying monsters, really. He’s the prince of the fae, and he’s far more powerful than them, but Geralt doesn’t need to know that, so he leashes his magic, letting Geralt step in and take care of him.

There are times that Jaskier resorts to his magic, like when Geralt gets severely injured and is so out of it that he can’t detect the hum of Jaskier’s healing magic, sealing his wounds together. Sometimes, when a monster fight starts to get overwhelming, Jaskier grows a root to trip the monster, distracting it just enough for Geralt to finish it off, but he never displays the full potential of his magic, fearful of Geralt’s reaction.

_I’m a witcher. It’s my duty to hunt monsters._

He falls in love with Geralt all over again, this time as a grown man, not a young child. Jaskier falls in love with Geralt’s gentle affections, rare as they are, as he takes care of Jaskier in his own gruff way. He falls in love with the kindness that Geralt shows towards humans even as they spit at him and hate him. He falls in love with Geralt’s witty comments when he’s in the mood to banter with Jaskier, even as he sinks under the weight of Geralt’s biting words and insults.

Jaskier wants to act on it. He wants to pull Geralt in for a kiss over the campfire, yearns to feel those familiar lips on his once more, but he thinks of _‘Leave’_ , thinks of _‘If I see you again…’_ , and hides behind his facade of a bumbling bard, always smiling and laughing, jumping from bed to bed.

He won’t give Geralt the power to tear his heart open again.

But Geralt does, when he ties himself to Yennefer in Rinde. When Geralt looks at Yennefer with softness in his eyes, a softness that, decades ago, had been directed at him, Jaskier has to leave for a week, slinking into the nearest forest and letting the plants caress him in comfort as memories of his childhood runs through his mind. 

They run into her again and again, and it’s the same pattern - Geralt follows after Yennefer, hearts in his eyes, and they disappear for a few days while Jaskier sings and pretends that the key hanging around his neck doesn’t get heavier and heavier, then Geralt returns, and the cycle repeats. 

Yennefer is delightful. Jaskier doesn’t hate Yennefer - she’s a wonderful person to verbally spar with, her biting sarcasm a wonderful match to his, and he enjoys riling up Geralt with her. He admires her drive and ambition, and of course, her beauty and power are unparalleled, and Jaskier almost considers her a friend.

Jaskier can’t hate her, but he hates that she has Geralt’s devotion, and dedication, and love. He had once been the subject of that, Jaskier thinks bitterly. Not anymore.

He wonders what Geralt had done with the key that Julian had given him. Had he thrown it away, carelessly tossing it to the side of the road? Had he chucked it into the ocean, letting the waves carry it far, far away from the Continent? Had he sold it as nothing more than a worthless piece of metal?

Jaskier had once been on the receiving end of Geralt’s devotion and love, and while Geralt has clearly moved on, Jaskier still hasn’t, his key still hanging around his neck, a symbol of his pathetic pining, a representation of the hope he’d foolishly held onto for years. So many decades later, and he still wears it, still so utterly devoted to Geralt that he can’t bear to part with it.

It’s fine. Jaskier still has Geralt’s companionship, even if he doesn’t have his love. Jaskier will stay with Geralt for as long as Geralt will have him - he couldn’t stay by Geralt’s side as Julian, but he’ll stay by his side as Jaskier. 

But then -

A flash of teeth, a face twisted in a cruel sneer, spitting harsh, biting words.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands!”

The trees murmur soft reassurances to Jaskier, leaves rustling as they bend towards him. He sits on a fallen log, head in his hands, the key around his neck so, so heavy.

Perhaps he’s simply not destined to be by Geralt’s side, not as Julian, and not as Jaskier. Perhaps their paths weren’t meant to cross at all, and maybe they shouldn’t have, if all it’s brought Jaskier is heartbreak.

Twice. He’d befriended Geralt twice, once as a child, once as an adult, and both times, Jaskier had fallen in love with him, giving Geralt all his devotion and his love.

Both times, Geralt had torn Jaskier’s heart out and ripped it into shreds.

Jaskier stands on shaky legs. He’d gotten through the heartbreak once before, and he will do it again. It won’t be easy, but Jaskier vows to himself that he will never again be so foolish when giving his heart out again. He _will_ recover, and he will not let anyone hurt him again.

Jaskier looks at his lute, lying carelessly on the ground. There’s no point to his songs if there’s no one to sing it to, but he picks it up, runs his hands over it, knowing that it will be a long time before he plays it again.

He opens up the veil between the worlds and returns home.

It’s time to fulfil his duties, his destiny as the crown prince.

With slow, shaky hands, Jaskier reaches up and grasps the chain of the necklace, and, squeezing his eyes shut, he unclasps it. There’s an empty space over his heart where the key used to hang, and Jaskier skims a hand over his chest, the lack of the key’s weight unfamiliar after decades of wearing it.

Jaskier looks at the key in his hand. The key to his heart, the key that represents his devotion and dedication and love, and he curls his fingers around it, studying it for a moment before he walks over to one of the locked chests in his room.

_Something to remember me by._

Jaskier unlocks the chest, and studies its contents. The bluebell that Geralt had once plucked for him, looking at him with a tinge of pink on his cheeks, its colour kept alive by Jaskier’s magic. A crumpled letter which he’d intended to send to Geralt when he’d first left for the Path. A few small rocks from the forest floor, left over from a game they’d played together. Small trinkets and mementos of their friendship, collected over the years, memories that Jaskier had shut away and tried to forget.

Ever so slowly, Jaskier places the key into the chest. He looks at it for a moment, looks at the key surrounded by over a decade of fond memories, crushed by a few harsh words, and lets his gaze linger for a moment.

Then he closes the chest and locks it, burying all his thoughts of Geralt, all the pain and joy and heartache that comes with Geralt, and straightens.

Later, he heads out of the door, striding towards the throne room. Guards and servants lower their heads as he passes, adorned in his royal clothes, his glamour discarded to reveal the silver eyes that mark him as the crown prince.

His mother smiles from the throne when he throws open the doors of the throne room, and hundreds of heads turn towards him.

“Julian,” his mother purrs, straightening in her seat. She smiles, sharp teeth glinting in the light. “Welcome back.”

One by one, the nobles sink to their knees in front of him, and a wave of low murmurs ripple across the room, murmurs of _welcome back, my prince_.

Julian smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to [brothebro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro) for looking over this chapter and checking that it makes sense, ily a lot<3
> 
> and uh, this is very angsty - i hurt geralt a lot here, and by extension jaskier, so brace yourselves:)

Geralt’s first year on the Path is not easy.

All he wants to do is help. He sees humans, their towns plagued by monsters and creatures of the night, and all he wants to do is help them, save them from further death and destruction, but they don’t see it. All they see is a monster, a mutant, someone who is so utterly different from them that they have no choice but to hate him.

He saves a child. The mother snatches her child from his arms, fear and disgust in her eyes.

“Don’t touch my child, mutant,” she snarls, her gaze hateful but stinking of fear. “Take your money and go.”

Geralt had always known that humans would not be receptive to him. Vesemir had drilled that into his head, but when he first sets out on the Path, he holds out desperate hope that perhaps humans will see his sincere intent to help, and treat him well.

That hope is quickly dashed after his first contract, and it sinks after the next, and the next, and the next. He is sixteen, fresh-faced and young, but humans don’t see that, ignoring his youth in favour of sneering at his white hair and golden eyes, looking only at the parts of him that are abnormal, inhuman, and they treat him as they would any other witcher.

It’s horrible.

Life on the Path is lonely. Geralt only has his horse, who he’d named Roach, for company, but horses don’t talk. They don’t talk, or sing, or hug him, or braid flowers into his hair. Horses don’t chat with him and laugh with him, and as wonderful as Roach is, she is nothing like Julian.

Geralt misses Julian terribly, and he can’t wait for winter, when he’ll finally return to Kaer Morhen, and he can see Julian again. He clutches at the key that hangs from his neck, gripping at it like a lifeline as he remembers that his Julek is out there, waiting for him, and forces himself to continue on the Path, as much as the hatred of humans drags him down day after day.

“Monster,” they sneer, spitting in his face. “You don’t deserve to live, don’t deserve love.”

He deserves love, Geralt tells himself. He’s not the monster they say he is. He may not look the same as they do, he may have mutagens running through his veins, but he deserves love, deserves Julian’s gentle gaze and tender touches, deserves his warm hugs and tentative kisses. He keeps reminding himself of that, even as it becomes increasingly harder and harder to believe - Julian will be there once he gets back. He just needs to make it to winter.

As he spends more time on the Path, he learns to be on his guard at all times, not knowing when a human may decide that they would like to have one less witcher on the earth. He’d learnt that the hard way when a dozen humans had ambushed him in the middle of the night, wielding axes and pitchforks and knives, and he had been forced to run without taking his belongings.

He learns to be wary, to never trust blindly. He learns to question every action, every word, every intention, and at night, he never lets himself fall asleep fully, always ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.

That winter, Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen with tense shoulders and wary eyes. When he passes through the forest, he lets his hand trail along the familiar trees, lets his mind drift to the clearing, to Julian, and _gods_ , he’s missed Julian so goddamn much. He longs to walk the familiar path to their clearing, but he remembers whispers of _monster, mutant, you don’t deserve love_ , and his shoulders curl inwards.

What if Julian has forgotten him?

What if he takes one look at Geralt, jaded after a year on the Path, and decides that he doesn’t want to be friends with Geralt any longer?

If he does, Geralt doesn’t think he can take it. He _aches_ to go to the clearing and pull his best friend into his arms, aches to stay in the warm circle of Julian’s embrace until the past year is chased away, but fear seizes at his heart when he takes a step in the direction of the clearing, and he withdraws, turning away and heading resolutely towards Kaer Morhen.

He’ll - he’ll find Julian later.

It takes him a week before Geralt gathers the courage to enter the forest. He walks through the trees slowly, soaking in the familiarity of his surroundings, and he hates how out of place he feels for the first time since meeting Jaskier. The trees are familiar, the road is familiar, and yet, Geralt feels detached from it all as he takes the well-worn path towards the clearing.

The moment he passes the tree with crooked branches, there’s a loud shriek and a blue of bright colour, and suddenly, Julian is upon him, flinging his arms around Geralt’s neck.

“Geralt!” Julian cries. He’s smiling brightly, practically vibrating in excitement as he tightens his arms around Geralt’s stiff body. “I missed you, pup.”

 _I’ve missed you, too,_ Geralt wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he stands, frozen in place, as Julian’s arms encircle him. It’s been nearly a year since someone has last touched him like that, like he’s not a monster, like he’s not a filthy mutant, and Julian’s easy embrace is so unexpected that Geralt tenses, not knowing how to react.

Julian pulls away slightly, and Geralt spots the frown that flits across his face as he takes a step back, wringing his hands. 

“So, uh.” Julian’s voice is tentative, slightly tremulous as he looks away, biting his lips. “How’ve you been?”

How has he been? Utterly worn down by the Path, by the unending monsters and contracts and injuries, by the hatred and fear from humans, by the gaping, yawning loneliness. A visceral ache in his heart as he longs for Kaer Morhen, for Julian, for his _home_.

Geralt settles for a low hum, unable to voice his thoughts, unwilling to burden Julian with the weight of the Path, and Julian’s face falls.

“What’s that?” Julian questions softly. His voice is still so tentative, as if Geralt is a spooked animal, and Geralt hates it, hates that Julian feels like he needs to tiptoe around Geralt, but he _can’t find the words_. “Don’t ‘hmm’ me, I haven’t seen you for a year, and you must have so many stories to tell me!”

Julian’s words are imbued with a cheer, a cheer that Geralt knows to be false from how familiar he is with Julian’s mannerisms, and for a moment, he lets himself loathe the Path, loathe how hard it is to communicate with his best friend now, how Julian must feel like Geralt is withdrawing from him.

He _isn’t_. He really isn’t. He’s just…

Julian gently tugs at his hand, and Geralt lets himself be led towards their usual seat. Julian touches him as tenderly as he always does, fingers gentle as they work through the tangles in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt lets himself relax into the soothing, familiar sensation of Julian’s hands trailing over his head, weaving his hair into a braid.

The gentle touches are almost unfamiliar after so many months enduring harsh words and hateful eyes, after so many months of being treated as something subhuman, something monstrous and lesser, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut against the hot tears that threaten to fall as his heart beats slowly against the key that rests on his chest.

He’s _loved_ , he reminds himself. Julian is here, and Geralt is _loved_.

That day, before Geralt leaves to return to Kaer Morhen, Julian tugs him into a warm hug, and Geralt wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer and breathing in the scent of nature and wildflowers.

Gods, he’s missed Julek so goddamn much.

He gets to have Julian for a whole winter. A whole winter before Geralt needs to return to his duties, a whole winter for him to forget about the Path. 

Geralt visits Julian at least once a week, slipping easily back into their old routine, but it’s stilted, not quite right. It takes several visits before Julian manages to coax full sentences out of Geralt, and even more visits before Geralt manages to laugh for the first time that winter, and at the blinding smile that breaks out over Julian’s face at the sound of Geralt’s laughter, Geralt resolves to try harder. He wants to, for Julian.

Halfway through winter, Geralt passes a small patch of bluebells when making his way towards the clearing. The buds are poking out of the snow-covered ground, splashes of bright blue against the sea of white. They’re vibrant and beautiful, and Geralt kneels down, brushing his fingers gently over the petals before plucking a single bluebell.

Julian is waiting for him, as always, perking up as he spots Geralt emerging from the trees.

“Geralt!” he greets, hopping up from where he’d been lounging against a tree, making his way over with a bounce in his steps. 

Geralt feels heat creeping up his neck as Julian approaches, and he ducks his head, shoving out the hand holding the bluebell towards Julian.

“Um. Julek,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the patches of snow on the ground. “This is. This is for you.”

‘Oh.” Julian’s whisper is barely audible, and Geralt peeks up to see Julian gazing at him with shining eyes. “Oh, _pup_.”

Geralt feels Julian’s fingers brush over his hand as he takes the bluebell, turning it over in his hand before tucking it behind a pointed ear, the bright blue petals complementing his silver eyes nicely.

“That’s sweet of you, Geralt,” Julian murmurs, lips tilting up in a soft smile, and before Geralt knows it, he’s lurching forward, pressing a clumsy kiss to those pink lips, unable to keep himself away from Julian any longer.

Julian kisses back enthusiastically, something desperate and frenzied in his movements like he’s been waiting for this for a long time, and Geralt knows that the same desperation is reflected in his own body as he circles his arms tightly around Julian, pulling him closer.

A year without Julian, without his warm touch and fond smiles, and now - now, they’re _here_.

They fall back into their previous dynamic with the addition of… whatever this thing is between them. Julian greets him with light kisses and Geralt lets him, lets Julian pull him into his arms, lets Julian lavish him with endless affection. Geralt has never been happier, and yet.

And yet, dark shadows lurk in his sleep, and nightmares haunt him even as Julian runs gentle hands through his hair. There are days when Geralt jumps at every shadow, his hands tensed and ready to draw his sword at a moment’s notice, and there are days when Geralt sees nothing but danger, when even Julian’s kind touch reminds him of the furious roars of humans when he’d been woken up in the middle of the night, surrounded by axes and pitchforks. 

There are days when Julian’s cheer and laughter is too much, and Geralt lashes out, his mind a dark haze from the shadows that plague his thoughts. These are days when Julian flinches back, hurt in his silver eyes as he withdraws from Geralt, trying to give him the space he needs, and Geralt _craves_ Julian’s touch, craves his affection and love, but his mind rebels from that, rebels from the care that Julian tries to give him.

He hates himself for it, heart fracturing each time Julian’s mouth tightens as Geralt pushes him away, each time Julian’s face shutters and closes off as Geralt snaps at him to shut up. He wants, more than anything, to draw Julian close and hold him tight, enveloping both of them in a warm cocoon where none of the hurt in the world can touch them, but Geralt falls victim to the shadows in his mind, and he hurts and hurts his best friend.

It gets worse as winter draws to a close. The frost recedes bit by bit, and with every day that passes, the prospect of the Path looms in Geralt’s mind, reminding him that once again, he’ll have to open himself to the gaping loneliness and pain of life on the road. 

It makes him more snappish and irritable, and more often than not, he and Julian sit together in uneasy silence, and Geralt can feel Julian’s hurt and confusion, but he can’t make it better. The Path beckons to him, mocks the tentative happiness he’s found in this clearing, and the key around his neck grows heavier with every passing day. 

The frost of winter gives away to the warmth of spring, and Geralt packs up, readying himself to leave Kaer Morhen, to leave Julian. With his swords on his back, Geralt walks into the forest, every step heavy.

Another year on the Path.

He can barely meet Julian’s eyes as he chokes out a quiet farewell, pressing a hasty kiss to Julian’s lips as he pretends not to see Julian’s crestfallen expression, something stricken in his eyes as he watches Geralt leave with nothing more than a brief goodbye and a single kiss, and Geralt yearns for him, yearns to wrap himself in Julian’s gentle arms and never leave, but he - he -

Next winter, Geralt tries to tell himself. Next winter, he’ll be better, and they’ll be back to how they used to be. Next winter, he’ll bring the sun back to Julian’s face.

When he sets back out on the road, Geralt thinks that this year will be better, because he knows what to expect this time.

He’s wrong. 

He doesn’t get used to the fear and hatred of humans. Instead, with every town or village he enters, the fear and hatred builds and builds, weighing on him more and more. He tries to play nice, does his best to be civil and polite as he slays monsters for them, as he saves lives and helps towns, but he’s rejected again and again.

At the peak of summer, he spares an incubus. The town cries for the incubus’ blood, but Geralt knows that the incubus is innocent. The incubus hasn’t killed anyone, and it has done nothing but try and blend into human society, and Geralt refuses to kill an innocent being, even if it isn’t human.

He’s chased out of town for that, pelted with stones as the townspeople pursue him with lit torches and pitchforks, calling for his blood.

 _Monster_ , they call him. _You’re no better than the creatures you kill. How dare you spare the incubus, it’s a monster, you’re a monster, monster, monster._

Geralt barely manages to escape the town alive, blood oozing from his forehead as he bleeds from multiple gashes on his body, and he barely manages to stay conscious as he urges Roach on, travelling as far away from the town as possible. 

It takes him a week until he fully recovers, and even then, his dreams are haunted with the phantom pain of a pitchfork raking across his chest, a jagged rock hitting his forehead, the whispers of _monstermonstermonster_.

A few months later, Geralt encounters a werewolf, and discovers that the werewolf was cursed. The full moon is near, but he’s desperate to find a cure. He remembers that incubus from not long ago, but he pushes the thought away. 

If the werewolf can be saved, Geralt will do anything in his power to try. 

But then the full moon is upon him, and he’s too late to stop the werewolf as it tears into a young boy. Geralt puts his silver sword through the werewolf, but he’s too late. The young boy lies on the ground, face barely recognisable with how torn apart it is, and Geralt sinks to his knees.

Fuck. He’s _too late._

The young boy’s parents come running, and the mother is red in the face, tears streaming from her eyes as she yells, “You should’ve killed the beast a long time ago, _mutant_ , you _monster_ , you could’ve stopped it, you could’ve saved my boy!”

She dissolves into heaving sobs, and her husband takes a menacing step towards Geralt, an axe in hand.

“You’re a murderer, witcher,” the man hisses, eyes fiery with anger. “You were naive to think that the beast could’ve been cured, and your actions have cost the life of _my son_.”

His voice breaks in grief, even as fury radiates from him in waves. “You are no better than a beast, a murderer. Your job is to kill monsters, you filthy mutant, not save them.”

“I’m sorry -” Geralt tries, but the man thrusts the axe at him with a snarl.

“ _Sorry_ doesn’t bring back my son, _mutant_ ,” he spits, face twisted in a vicious, pained snarl. “Do your _fucking_ job. There are no good monsters out there, witcher. Learn to do your job, and kill them.”

The man lunges forward, axe swinging, but Geralt quickly dodges out of the way, using his enhanced speed to bring himself far, far away from the grieving couple, his heart a heavy ache in his chest. 

_There are no good monsters out there, witcher._

There _are_ good monsters, Geralt knows. He’s been keeping tabs on that incubus from months ago, and it hasn’t killed anyone, keeping a low profile as it still skulks amongst humans. And there’s Julian - Julian’s not human, and Geralt may not know what he is, but he knows that Julian is _good_. He smiles and laughs and brings light into Geralt’s life, he touches Geralt like he’s someone worth loving, and he’s the best person that Geralt knows.

That man was wrong. Not every monster is bad.

Geralt tries to convince himself of that, but that winter, he’s unable to bring himself to find Julian, the man’s words ringing in his mind, the woman’s sobs echoing in his ears, the young boy’s bloody body stretched out before his eyes. Julian is _good_. He’s not a monster, not like the drowners and nekkers and griffins that Geralt hunts. He’s no mindless beast, and he’s been nothing but kind, but somehow, apprehension still wells up within Geralt at the thought of visiting Julian.

It takes over a month before Geralt finally brings himself to leave Kaer Morhen and head into the forest. There’s something roiling in his gut, something he can’t quite put a name to, but it sends a foreboding shiver down his spine as he gets closer and closer to the clearing.

Julian is _good_. He isn’t a monster.

Julian smiles at Geralt when he enters the clearing, and Geralt tries to return the smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

As Julian chatters away, regaling Geralt with tales of what had happened over the past year, Geralt has to force his stare to not linger on Julian’s pointed ears, to not stare at his sharp teeth or glowing silver eyes. He tries to let Julian’s words wash over him, calming his mind, but the longer he stays there, the more uncomfortable the sensation in his stomach grows.

He leaves early that day, trying to ignore Julian’s slumped shoulders as he leaves the clearing. It’s just a phase, Geralt tells himself. He’s not avoiding Julian - he still loves Julian, he just - he just needs a bit of space, and everything will be _fine_.

But Geralt only manages to visit Julian five times over the course of the winter, each time more tense than the last as he finds himself unable to fully relax in Julian’s presence, his eyes always drawn to Julian’s ears and teeth and eyes, unable to quell the voice in his mind that whispers _he’s not human, he’s dangerous_.

Geralt attempts to bask in a decade of fond memories with Julian, attempts to convince himself that Julian is harmless. He thinks about Julian’s gentle hands and bright smile and eager eyes, thinks about his joy and his patience and his love. He wraps his hand around the key on his chest, reminding himself of how fondly Julian had looked at him when they’d kissed, but the dread and apprehension in his mind only grows and grows as the fond memories are overshadowed by the mauled body of a young boy and the grief of his parents. 

At the end of that winter, Geralt can barely bring himself to meet Julian’s eyes as he leaves, grunting out a simple farewell. When Julian approaches him, Geralt feels his muscles tighten up instinctively, hands itching for his silver sword as his eyes dart towards Julian’s pointed ears.

Julian isn’t a threat. He’s Geralt’s best friend, his partner, and Geralt loves him. Geralt shouldn’t be wary of him, and yet he has to stop himself from recoiling at Julian’s proximity, unable to stand Julian’s presence as he turns away quickly and heads out of the clearing, his shoulders easing the further he gets from Julian.

Just before he leaves, Geralt catches the hurt and confusion and misery in Julian’s eyes, in the set of his shoulders, and Geralt _hates_ it. Julian has done nothing to warrant this distrust, but he can’t help himself, instinct overriding his fond memories of their childhood. 

Maybe a year apart will do them good. He’ll apologise to Julian next winter, Geralt vows. He’ll grovel at his feet, beg for forgiveness for treating him so horribly, and they’ll be _fine_.

* * *

A young man has recently died in this village, his body drained of blood, and the villagers beg Geralt to dispose of the monster. It’s a bruxa, he determines, and he hunts for her, sifting out her scent from amid thousands of others, and tracks her down. He follows the scent to a stream, where a beautiful young woman is seated on a fallen log.

“Witcher,” she greets. She looks harmless, hands spread out placatingly, dark eyes wide and pleading. “Are you here to kill me?”

Geralt’s sword wavers. She looks so young, so innocent, and it pains him to think that he needs to kill her. “You killed a young man in the village.”

Her eyes flash in rage and she jumps up, teeth bared. “That young man,” she spits, “tried to take me against my will! I begged and pleaded, but he refused to listen to me, and he forced my hand.”

“So you killed him?” Geralt questions, but even though he knows that the young woman before him is a monster, a killer, some part of him understands her, knows that it is not easy for a young woman to survive in this world of cruel men.

He shouldn’t be sympathising with her. _Your job is to kill monsters, you filthy mutant, not save them._ But there’s something so genuinely vulnerable in her gaze, something that tugs at his too-soft heart.

“I won’t do it again,” the bruxa pleads, turning her palms up. “It was a mistake, I - I got so _angry_ that he would dare violate me in such a way.”

“You still killed him,” Geralt says, but he sounds less certain, his grip on his sword loosening. The memory of the werewolf ripping the young boy apart surfaces in his mind, and he remembers the father’s words. 

But the man who’d forced himself on this bruxa - how is he any less monstrous than the creatures he hunts? The monsters he kills wreak havoc on humans, but they‘re often mindless beasts. That man had been human, fully aware of his actions, and yet he’d chosen to violate a young woman, vulnerable and defenseless. 

Who are the true monsters in this world?

“It was a mistake,” the bruxa repeats. Her shoulders slump in defeat, as if preparing herself for death. “Please, witcher, spare me.”

Her voice is weak, tremulous, barely loud enough for Geralt to hear, and _damn_ his too-soft heart. Vesemir had always said it was one of his biggest weaknesses.

Before he can regret his decision, Geralt takes a step back and sheaths his sword. “Go,” he grunts, jerking his chin at the bruxa. “If I hear of you killing anyone else, you _will_ end up in pieces. Now go, before I change my mind.”

“Thank you,” the bruxa breathes, and she darts off into the trees, impossibly quick and deadly silent, and Geralt curses himself. He’s too soft - he’s a witcher, and he can’t afford to be soft. 

But he’d made the choice. He hopes that he won’t come to regret it. 

Geralt makes the trek back to the village slowly and leisurely. He’d ‘disposed’ of the bruxa, after all, and she won’t be roaming the village and draining the blood of young men, unless she wants to find her body sliced to ribbons by Geralt’s sword. He can take his time heading back to the village, and he wanders into the forest to collect herbs and ingredients for his potions.

When he enters the village again, the sun has set. The village is hushed, something hanging in the air, but Geralt ignores it, heading towards the inn where he will stay for the night, and then he smells it.

Blood. So much blood. He races through the village, heart picking up as he recalls that the villagers are having a celebration tonight, everyone gathering in the square, and he prays that he’s wrong -

The village square is a massacre, a sea of blood, countless bodies strewn on the ground, pale and broken. The silence is eerie, not a single heartbeat to be heard, and from the overpowering stench of copper, Geralt manages to pick out the scent of the earlier bruxa - no, not just one, but _several_. Their scent is so faint that Geralt knows that it’s useless for him to try and hunt them down now - judging by the smell, the slaughter had been hours ago, not long after Geralt had let that bruxa go, and the bruxae responsible for this massacre are undoubtedly long gone by now. 

Geralt curses himself, curses his stupidity and his bleeding heart. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s a _witcher_ , for fuck’s sake. He kills monsters. He doesn’t sympathise with their plight and let them go - but he made that mistake, and now an entire village has been slaughtered, all because of him and his stupid, _stupid_ too-soft heart.

_Your job is to kill monsters, you filthy mutant, not save them._

That man had been right, Geralt thinks bleakly as he looks over the massacre, the sprawling field of death. Monsters are to be killed, and Geralt had doomed an entire village to destruction by falling for a bruxa’s tricks. 

He spends the entire night digging graves to bury the bodies. It’s a small village, no more than a few dozen people, but he’s still working after the sun rises, digging grave after grave, laying each person in carefully. The sun dips low in the sky when he’s done, and he’s covered in dirt and sweat and blood, but as Geralt looks over the mass of graves, bowing his head in regret, he vows that he won’t ever let this happen again. 

That night, he unclasps the chain from his neck, holding the key in his hands for a second, hesitating. Its weight is comforting, and warm memories flash through his mind, laughter and hugs and kisses. But Geralt reminds himself of the blood on his hands, his own naivety and foolishness, reminds himself that his job is to kill monsters, and the key trembles in his hands before he buries it in the bottom of his pack.

It feels like he’s buried a piece of his heart, but - Geralt hunts monsters. He protects humans. Julian is - he doesn’t know what Julian is, but he’s certainly not human, and Geralt _refuses_ to have anyone else die due to his foolish mistakes.

He carries that resolution back on the Path, grief a heavy weight on his heart as he sets back out on the road. When a siren begs him to spare her, he ruthlessly chops her head off in a spray of blood, pushing away the regret at the thought of her pleading, vulnerable eyes. He tracks down the incubus he had spared over a year ago, spearing his silver sword through its heart as it slumbers. He kills monsters the way he’s supposed to, like a true witcher, doing his job properly and protecting mankind.

Geralt keeps the memory of the slaughter fresh in his mind, forcing himself to remember it every time he goes to sleep as a reminder of who he is, and what he’s supposed to do.

_Do your fucking job. There are no good monsters out there._

He refuses to let something like that happen again. Monsters are monsters, and regardless of how sentient they may be, regardless of how innocent they may appear, it’s his job to kill them, and leave the world a better place for it. 

The key’s weight seems to mock him, weighing down his pack, and there’s a small voice in his mind that whispers to him, telling him that no, not all monsters are bad. There are sentient non-humans capable of thinking, of working out right and wrong, capable of love and care and compassion and all those human qualities held in high esteem, and he shouldn’t kill them.

Geralt firmly pushes down the voice, picturing dozens of dead bodies, torn apart and drained by several bruxae, all thanks to his stupidity, his naivety.

He doesn’t go into the forest that winter.

Instead, Geralt trains vigorously in Kaer Morhen, forbidding his thoughts from lingering on the forest, the clearing, Julian. 

(It doesn’t work. Silver eyes haunt his dreams, filled with bright laughter and soft smiles and gentle hands kneading his scalp, running through his hair, cupping his face as a kiss is pressed to his lips.

But blood also plagues his sleep, memories of lives lost and cut off too early, the warm silver eyes morphing to a blood red as bruxae massacre dozens of innocent villagers, and the gentle touches are overshadowed by the coppery stench of destruction and death.)

As springtime approaches, he leaves Kaer Morhen as usual, bracing himself for the Path. He wants to leave the mountains as soon as possible, so he takes a shortcut through the forest, staying far away from the clearing.

But Julian has always known when Geralt would enter the forest, so Geralt doesn’t know why he’s surprised when a familiar voice calls out, “Geralt.”

Julian steps out from between the trees, looking unchanged from the last time Geralt had seen him, his face as youthful and innocent as ever, and Geralt clenches his jaw, pulling his horse to a halt.

“Julian,” Geralt grits out stiffly, trying to ignore the way Julian flinches at his full name. After all, Julian has always been Julek to Geralt, never _Julian_ , but Geralt forces himself to remember the village he’d doomed to death, letting his eyes skim over Julian’s pointed ears, and reminds himself.

He’s a witcher. He hunts monsters. 

Julian’s face does a complicated dance, a maelstrom of hurt and anger and confusion as he leans against a tree, a casual pose that fails to hide the slight tremble in his arms. “I haven’t seen you all winter.” His voice is cheery, but Geralt has known him long enough to hear the falseness behind it, his smile too bright and too wide. “I’ve missed you, pup.”

Geralt growls involuntarily at the too-fond nickname, and he glares into inhumanly silver eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Julian’s face overflows with hurt, visibly swallowing as he whispers, voice barely audible, “Right. Uh. How’ve you been?”

Geralt takes in his best friend - no, the creature before him, the inhuman features, the pointed ears and sharp teeth and silver eyes, and he thinks of blood painting the ground, thinks of a mother crying over her dead son, all because he’d been naive and foolish and too goddamn trusting, and he pulls up his walls, even as his heart screams at him not to, screams that _it’s Julian, it’s Julian, don’t do this._

“You should leave,” Geralt rumbles, keeping his voice firm. 

Something in Julian’s expression twists. “Geralt -”

“I don’t want to see you again,” Geralt snarls, unleashing his pent-up anger, his anger over his own foolishness and naivety, unleashing his grief and guilt for not being able to just _do his job_ , and Julian flinches again, his expression more hurt than Geralt has ever seen, but Geralt pushes on.

“I don’t know what you are, Julian, but I’m a witcher.” He needs to do his job. He refuses to be responsible for the lives of more innocent people, and even though he’s known Julian for over a decade, even as his heart aches, it’s a risk he cannot take. “It’s my duty to hunt monsters. If I ever see you again…”

Geralt won't let there be a repeat of the slaughter. 

“I’m not a monster, Geralt,” Julian pleads, eyes wide and vulnerable, as vulnerable as the bruxa who’d slaughtered the village, and Geralt won’t let himself be fooled. “I’ve never hurt you, I’ve never hurt anyone, please -”

Geralt unsheathes his sword (silver for monsters) and points it at Julian, ignoring the way his heart screams and fights back against his will, pounding against his mental walls. 

“Leave,” he spits. 

Julian recoils, opening his mouth, but Geralt narrows his eyes before he can say anything, taking a menacing step towards him as he keeps his sword pointing steadily at Julian’s heart. 

Then Julian turns and flees, far faster than any human, and Geralt is left with the scent of nature and wildflowers mingling with the salt of bitter tears. 

Geralt keeps the sword up for a few seconds before his arm drops to his side. Something is tearing apart within him as he numbly sheaths his sword and swings himself back onto Roach, urging her back on the road. 

He’d done the right thing. He doesn’t know what Julian is, after all, and Julian had never trusted him enough to tell him. Julian isn’t human, and as such, he’s likely to be dangerous, likely to be a threat to innocents. Geralt had done the right thing in cutting off their relationship before it could progress further, before he could get attached, before it would only end in blood and death. 

But Geralt can’t bring himself to believe it.

As he rides away from the forest, Geralt tries to forget Julian, tries to forget the harsh, cruel words he’d spat at his best friend of over a decade. He focuses on his hunts and his contracts, trying to lose himself in the monotony of the Path, but Julian’s stricken eyes linger perpetually at the back of his mind, tugging at his heart, bringing waves of unwanted remorse.

Geralt tells himself that there’s no reason to regret his actions. He’d done the right thing, cutting off his relationship with Julian so that he won’t be tempted to sympathise with any monsters, so that his too-soft heart won’t lead to a repeat of that slaughter, but try as he might, guilt drags him down day after day, Julian’s flinch and hurt expression and shattered eyes haunting his dreams.

The Path is dark and gloomy and bleak, filled with monsters and blood, littered with the prejudice of humans. There’s nothing for Geralt to look forward to, no bright light waiting for him in the forest next to Kaer Morhen, and this is the life of a witcher. This is how it should be, taking contracts and slaying monsters and travelling the Continent, _doing his job_.

Years, decades pass like this as Geralt focuses on nothing but the Path, nothing but his _job_. When he returns to Kaer Morhen for winter, he skirts around the forest, staying far away from the trees as he forces his childhood memories from his mind. He does a valiant job of trying to forget what he’d done to his best friend, of ignoring the key that still sits at the bottom of his pack, even as guilt carves a deeper hole in him with every passing day.

He’s lonely. He’s so goddamn lonely. He has Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir waiting for him back at the keep, and he’s beyond grateful for them, he really is, but they’re just not - they just aren’t -

Geralt can’t think of _him_. If he does, decades of pushing down his turmoil will come crashing down on him, dragging under a wave of self-loathing and endless regret, and he can’t let anything distract him from the Path, from his job.

Geralt doesn’t think of him.

Then he’s in Blaviken, and he meets a woman named Renfri, and he kills her. She lies bleeding out in his arms, the light fading from her wide, bright eyes, and grief flays him open.

He’s no stranger to hateful words and violent actions, so when he walks out of Blaviken with sharp objects hurled at his back and barbed insults thrown at him, he’s used to it, but his shoulders bow under the weight of his grief and guilt. 

He’s a witcher. His job is to kill monsters.

Stregobor had thought that Renfri was a monster, preaching about the Black Sun and Lilit and cursed children, but when Renfri had come to him, Geralt had only seen a young woman, hardened by her circumstances, capable of _change_.

And he had killed her.

She might have killed Marilka, might have slaughtered the entire town if Geralt hadn’t stopped her. Geralt remembers the ruthless spark in her eyes, but he also remembers the desperation, the hunted look of someone who had seen too much in too short a time, who had to grow up too quickly amid the twisted horrors of the world, and when Geralt stares at his hands, he can almost see the blood that stains them. 

Gods, he’d killed her.

Renfri isn’t - _wasn’t_ a monster any more than Geralt himself is, and Geralt regrets his actions, regrets his single-minded focus on his job over the past decades. There are monsters and creatures and non-humans of all kinds on this Continent, and not all of them deserve death. 

Renfri hadn’t deserved to die. Geralt knows that she could’ve _changed_. She was - different, and people had labelled her a monster because of that. 

Not all monsters deserve death.

Geralt falls to his knees, clutching at Renfri’s brooch, his grip tight enough that the edges of the brooch dig into his palms.

_There are no good monsters out there, witcher. Learn to do your job, and kill them._

It’s not true, he thinks with a muted sense of dawning horror. It’s not true, because a ‘monster’ is anything that’s different, anything that deviates from the norm, but that doesn’t make them inherently evil. And yet, Geralt had spent the past decades mindlessly killing monster after monster, uncaring of the pleas from the more sentient ones, pushing down any shred of sympathy or compassion that arose. 

And Julian - _gods_ , Julian. Julian had done nothing to earn Geralt’s distrust. Julian had been nothing but kind and caring and loving, his every action gentle and tender, his face bright and cheerful, his laughter genuine and his voice pleasant. Julian had never shown him any ill will - he’d only ever _cared_ for him, and Geralt -

Geralt had pushed him away, pointed a sword at his heart and called him a monster.

What had he _done_?

He’d been so blinded by the bruxae’s massacre of that small village that he deliberately pushed away his memories of Julian’s love and affection, ignoring how, despite not being human, Julian never meant him any harm, had only ever been sweet and loving, and he’d called Julian a _monster_.

Julian’s silver eyes fill his mind, fractured and broken as they plead with Geralt to lower his sword, bright with unshed tears as Geralt tells him, _leave_ , and Geralt frantically digs up the key from the bottom of his pack, clutching it against his heart as a choked sob escapes his lips.

Despite being buried in his pack for decades, the key presses a familiar shape against his chest, and Geralt longs to ride up to Kaer Morhen, race into the forest and into the clearing and throw himself onto his knees, begging for Julian’s forgiveness.

But it’s been decades. Decades of him trying to forget Julian, trying to make excuses for pushing him away, and surely Julian must hate him now for tainting the joyous memories of their childhood, so when he returns to Kaer Morhen that winter, the key clasped around his neck once more, Geralt doesn’t head into the forest, only pausing at the edge of it for a few minutes before guilt pushes him back onto the road.

Rumours of Blaviken spread quickly, and he’s quickly labelled the Butcher of Blaviken, his hair and eyes making him distinct to humans who hate him even more than before.

Geralt knows that he deserves it. He’s a cruel, heartless monster, capable only of pushing away those close to him, incapable of showing any sympathy or compassion for the pleas of others, and he welcomes the hatred and the fear, endures the insults and the nights spent on the hard, lumpy ground as he’s chased out of inns and towns. 

He deserves it. 

He thinks of Julian every night, hands wrapped around the key that now takes up a permanent space on his chest. He yearns for Julian’s love, his bright smiles and joyful voice, yearns for tender days spent in peace, exchanging sweet kisses and talking about everything and nothing. 

But he can’t have it, not anymore, because he’d been a fool, his actions cruel and unforgivable, and Julian had deserved none of it. So Geralt sinks into the ache in his chest, the hole in his heart that’s shaped like Julian, regretting his words and actions and knowing that he’d brought this upon himself. 

He doesn’t deserve love. 

No one will ever love him like Julian did, Geralt thinks bitterly. No one will ever touch him like Julian did, gentle and without fear, and no one will smile at him like Julian did, eager and open and bright as the sun. He’s doomed to live his long life in darkness, without light or love, all because he’d been so utterly foolish. 

He will never have anyone like Julian again. 

Then there’s a bard who approaches him in Posada, bold and unafraid. It’s been decades since someone has looked at him like that, like he’s a _person_ and not a monster, and Geralt is baffled.

He has no idea how to deal with this.

But Jaskier sticks around stubbornly, following Geralt around with his lute and his songs and his stories, and Geralt can’t get rid of him, no matter how much he tries. Jaskier shouldn’t be around him. Geralt hurts everything he touches, and everyone he’s cared for gets hurt one way or another. Jaskier is sunlight and music and laughter, and he doesn’t deserve to be around Geralt, not when all Geralt does is hurt and hurt and hurt.

Geralt wants to push him away. Jaskier reminds him too much of Julian. They have the same crooked smile, the same ringing laugh, and they both reach out to Geralt in the same way, hands gentle and caring. When Jaskier braids flowers through his hair, when Jaskier throws an arm around him companionably, Geralt can almost pretend that it’s Julian next to him when he closes his eyes.

But Jaskier is not Julian. Julian had been - Geralt isn’t sure what Julian was, exactly, but he knows that Julian wasn’t human, with his pointed ears and his sharp teeth, while Jaskier is fully, undeniably human, heartbreakingly fragile and vulnerable. Julian has silver eyes, an inhuman colour that reflects the light of the moon, but Jaskier’s eyes are cornflower blue, bright and vibrant. Julian is all sharp angles and lethal grace, where Jaskier is easy smiles and soft beauty.

For a moment, Geralt thinks of what could have been. He wonders what could have been had he not been a fool, a monster for pushing his former best friend away. Perhaps they would still be friends now, maybe even lovers, as Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen every winter. Perhaps Julian would be relieved of his duties at an older age, and they would be travelling the world together, Julian at his side instead of Jaskier.

But Geralt had been a fool, and he will never know what had happened to Julian after they’d parted, but Jaskier is _here_ with him now, the only person who is unafraid to be gentle with him the same way Julian used to be.

They’re not the same person. Geralt _knows_ that. But when Jaskier offers to help bathe Geralt, unflinching at Geralt turns midnight black eyes on him, hands gentle as he rubs soap over Geralt’s too-sensitive body, Geralt thinks of long fingers weaving through his hair, tying long strands into a braid. When Jaskier touches Geralt unthinkingly, movements casual and intimate the way humans never are around him, Geralt remembers Julian’s tactility, pulling Geralt into his arms easily.

When Jaskier chatters at him easily, smiling and laughing at him with joy sparkling in his eyes, reaching out to touch him without a hint of fear in his scent, Geralt tries not to think about how Julian had been the only person who ever dared to approach him in such a way, without flinching at his white hair and golden eyes, without hatred or fear or wariness in his gaze.

They’re so very similar. But Geralt had wronged Julian, had wronged him unforgivably, and he won’t ever see him again. Jaskier is _here_ , bright and joyous and lively, a constant in Geralt’s life for months, for years, and eventually for decades, never leaving his side, and Geralt doesn’t understand.

He’s a witcher, and humans _hate_ witchers, even more so when he’s the Butcher of Blaviken, and yet Jaskier stays by his side, loyal and devoted.

Geralt craves Jaskier’s touch and affection, finds himself longing for Jaskier’s singing and unceasing chattering, and he wants to let himself _have_ this, but he can’t. Geralt hurts everything he touches, hurts everyone he cares for, and he can’t let himself hurt Jaskier the way he’d hurt Julian.

He does everything he can to try and deter Jaskier from staying with him, snapping at him impatiently, hurling barbed insults and shying away from Jaskier’s touch, but these only serve to make Jaskier more determined, and Geralt can’t help but bask in his affections, starved for every hint of care and kindness. Geralt is _weak_ \- somewhere along the way, Jaskier had wormed his way into Geralt’s heart with his smile and his songs, a thrumming presence beneath the spot where Julian’s key resides.

So he lets himself gravitate closer to Jaskier, opening himself up the way he hasn’t done in decades, and it’s worth it just to see Jaskier smile brighter, to see his eyes light up whenever Geralt banters easily with him or lets Jaskier pull him into a hug.

They have quiet nights around a campfire, Jaskier strumming his lute as Geralt sharpens his swords, and sometimes, Geralt catches Jaskier smiling at him over the crackling fire, face soft and gentle and content, and he’s helpless to do anything but smile back. 

After a hunt, when Geralt is high on toxicity from his potions and bleeding from multiple wounds, Jaskier tends to him with careful hands, stitching up Geralt’s injuries deftly as he murmurs soft reassurances into Geralt’s ear, his voice a soothing balm in the midst of pain. 

Then, when Geralt is grimy and covered with blood and guts, Jaskier tugs him to a bath, running a washcloth over his body as he hums, soft melodies lilting through the air. Geralt sinks into Jaskier’s touch, unwinding under his gentle hands as Jaskier lathers soap over his body, unflinching at the scars that decorate it. Geralt drifts, letting Jaskier work out the tangles in his hair and knead at his scalp, rubbing pleasant scents into his hair and over his body, relaxed in a way he rarely is. 

When winter approaches and Jaskier starts shivering in his bedroll, Geralt opens his arms wordlessly and Jaskier curls into him, so open and trusting as he falls asleep with his arms wrapped around a deadly, dangerous witcher, soothing the ache in Geralt’s heart and filling him with something soft and warm. 

When people get overly violent or hateful towards Geralt, Jaskier steps in, brimming with righteous indignation as he throws himself at them, furiously defending Geralt, and it does something complicated to Geralt to see someone so protective of _him_ , a witcher, a mutant. 

Jaskier is...

Jaskier’s presence brings something _more_ to his life, brings life into the darkness of the Path, brings joy in place of where grief had weighed him down for decades and decades, and Geralt wants to keep Jaskier forever, longs to treasure him and cherish him for the rest of his life, but he should’ve known better, because all he does is _destroy_.

They’re high up on a mountain, and a biting wind whips at Geralt’s air as he snarls, “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

Jaskier’s stricken blue eyes and his broken expression are too familiar, reminiscent of a memory from decades ago when silver eyes had looked at him with heartbreak and devastation, and just like that memory, anger sears through Geralt and causes harsh, cruel words to spill from his mouth.

The scent of salt fills Geralt’s nose as Jaskier walks away, head lowered, and Geralt is reeling too much from Yennefer’s words to care, fury a hot flame within him as he thinks of all the misfortunes that have befallen him over the years with Jaskier by his side. 

If he were in his right mind, he would be running after Jaskier, grabbing his arm and begging him to listen to his apology, but right now, Geralt is seething in anger, recalling every mess that Jaskier had dragged him into, Yennefer’s departure intensifying his fury and his need for someone to blame.

When anger finally fades into guilt, Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, recalling the hurt and utter heartbreak in Jaskier’s eyes. 

_See you around, Geralt_. 

His hands are built for nothing more than destruction, hurting everything he touches, driving away everyone he cares for, and now, Jaskier has become yet another casualty of his foolishness, and Geralt hates himself for it.

Geralt wants nothing more than to race down the mountain and beg for Jaskier’s forgiveness, longs to pull Jaskier into his arms and keep him there forever, but he’s too cowardly to face the effect his words must have had on Jaskier. He’s unable to bring himself to face Jaskier’s anger or sadness or hate, not when Jaskier has been one of the only people to _see_ him and treat him like a person, and yet, Geralt had hurt him beyond measure, had put that anguished, shattered look in his eyes as he’d turned away, shoulders slumped. 

Jaskier means so much to him, but Geralt had thrown that away. Unspeakable guilt rises within him like a tidal wave, and he doesn’t know if he can face Jaskier right now, not after he’d made Jaskier hurt so much. 

So he makes his way down the mountain as slowly as he can to avoid running into Jaskier, and when he finds Roach, he rides as far away from the nearest town as possible, knowing that Jaskier will likely be staying the night in an inn.

He’s a coward, perhaps. But if he doesn’t face Jaskier, he won’t be given another opportunity to hurt him again. After all, Jaskier is better off without him. Everyone is.

He always does this. When people care about him, and when he cares about them in return, he inevitably pushes them away. Julian had been the first person to choose Geralt - he’d been Geralt’s first friend, his first love, and Geralt had called him a monster, silver sword pointed steadily at Julian’s heart. Jaskier had been the second person to choose Geralt, following him around for over twenty years with unwavering devotion and continuous affection, and Geralt had repaid that by blaming all his misfortunes on Jaskier and snarling words harsh enough to make Jaskier’s face crumple in utter devastation. 

All he ever does is _hurt_. When will he learn that destruction is all that he’s capable of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE
> 
> i have about 5k more written, and depending on how i want to resolve this, this will likely have one more chapter, two at most
> 
> and uh yes i know i need to update my witcher jaskier series, but i thought that if i finished off this wip, i’d be able to post another witcher jaskier, this time a reverse au!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter bc i thought that the pacing works better like this, but here’s the reunion and the reveal, enjoy:)

Geralt goes through the motions. He does his job. When frost starts creeping in, he returns to Kaer Morhen, guilt tearing him apart as he passes by the forest. Eskel greets him with a hug, which he returns half-heartedly, and he responds to Lambert’s barbs with barely any enthusiasm. Vesemir sends him a concerned look, but doesn’t stop him as he heads up to his room after only a few grunted greetings.

Geralt is quiet that winter. His family know something's up, but they give him space to think and brood, and as the days creep on, he feels more and more empty, a painful void aching within him as Julian’s key sits heavy on his chest. 

Halfway through the winter, Geralt sits on his bed, staring blankly out of the window at the snow drifting gently to the ground, consumed by gaping misery. He can hear Eskel and Lambert squabbling in the kitchen, occasionally joined by Vesemir’s low, exasperated tones, but he can’t muster the energy to join them. He can smell the remnants of their dinner, and it’s all familiar, all how it usually is in winter, but even in the arms of the keep, surrounded by his family, Geralt feels so _empty_ , and he yearns for something, something _more_ -

Before he realises what he’s doing, he’s slipping out of the keep through an exit that hasn’t been used in decades, and Geralt pushes the door open, holding back a sneeze at the dust that assaults him. He trudges down the path, covered by moss and bushes, and heads into the forest.

The instant he steps through the trees, Geralt feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. For a moment, he stops, letting his head fall back as he shuts his eyes, snow caressing his cheeks gently. The cold winter breeze brushes past him, and somewhere in the canopy, a small animal swings through the branches.

He’s missed this.

The forest hasn’t changed much, and Geralt knows it as well as he had decades ago. He walks the familiar path through the trees, relishing in the familiarity and the comfort of the forest that had been his childhood home.

Ahead of him, there’s a tree with crooked branches.

Geralt steps into the clearing.

For a moment, all he knows is that he’s _home_. A decade of sweet memories leaps to the forefront of his mind, fond memories that make Geralt so, so warm, and he walks a circle in the clearing, tracing his fingers over a formation of rocks, unchanged from the way he and Julian had meticulously arranged them when they’d been no more than children. He sits down in his favourite spot, the spot where Julian would braid his hair from behind, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut as he recalls his last words to his childhood best friend. 

_I don’t want to see you again._

_Leave._

There had only been two people in his long life who’d meant so much to him. Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir - they’re his family, but it’s not the _same_. Jaskier and Julian had been his friends, his best friends, and what had Geralt done? He’d pushed both of them away.

He wonders what Julian is doing now. Perhaps Julian is out fulfilling his duties, whatever they are - Geralt has travelled the Continent many times over, and he still has no clue what Julian is. Perhaps Julian has settled down and is living a quiet life with a wife and children. Perhaps he is travelling the world, like Geralt. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

(Perhaps he is dead, but Geralt tries not to think about that.)

Julian could have grown up to be anything, anyone, and Geralt hates himself for tossing his first best friend out of his life, hates himself for not being part of Julian’s life. 

He should’ve been there. 

But no, he’d been stupid and callous, and his heart clenches at the reminder of the hurt in Julian’s face, the pleading in his eyes, and suddenly, the clearing brings painful memories instead of happy ones, but Geralt forces himself to stay.

He has made many mistakes, and he will not run from them.

He sits there until the sun sets, soaking in the memories of joy and laughter, and he can almost see two children racing through the clearing, shrieking and giggling; he can almost see two young men, looking into each other’s eyes with affection and tenderness borne out of years of closeness, their lips meeting in a soft kiss, and the empty space in Geralt’s chest _burns_. 

It’s only when the sky is dark that Geralt is pulled out of his memories, realising that he needs to return to Kaer Morhen. Before he leaves, he tips his head upwards, gazing at the night sky, framed by the looming trees around the clearing. 

Julian had always loved the stars. Geralt wonders, wherever Julian is, whether they’re both looking at the same sky.

He wonders whether Julian is happy.

That winter, Geralt sneaks out to the clearing whenever the snow isn’t so thick, sitting on the rocks as he lets himself ruminate in his childhood memories of joy and laughter. He yearns for Julian’s company, his gentle hands, and his beautiful laughter, but Geralt knows that he will never see Julian again, and he almost breaks at the thought. Geralt had made sure of that with his harsh and cruel words, and it’s been decades, long enough for time to have taken its toll on Julian. 

No one will ever touch him like Julian did, like Jaskier did, and the realisation makes him feel hollowed out and empty. He’s lost two of the most important people in his life, all due to his mistakes, and being in the clearing is a visceral reminder of that. 

The clearing is empty, and Geralt is alone every time he goes there. Gone is Julian’s laughter and song. Gone is Julian’s warm, lively presence, brightening up the dull, dreary clearing. Gone is Julian’s easy affection, his gentle touches. There is only a clearing filled with memories, Geralt the only presence that inhabits it, and it’s so _empty._

As winter comes to an end, Geralt aches at the knowledge that he will once again have to leave this clearing as he sets out on the Path. The snow is thinning, small blooms peeking out from under a blanket of white, a sign that he will be able to leave Kaer Morhen in a week or so. He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to leave the memories of Julian behind, and he is so immersed in his thoughts that he almost misses the man on the edge of the clearing, reclining elegantly against the trunk of a tree, silver eyes fixed on Geralt.

Geralt sucks in a breath, feeling like he’s been punched in the gut as he stares at the man before him. “Julian.” It’s a whisper of a name, a breath that barely carries on the wind, but Julian inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement, the movement cool and detached.

Geralt traces his eyes over his former best friend. Last time Geralt had seen him, Julian had still looked young, barely an adult as his eyes shone with unshed tears and worlds of hurt, his voice breaking as he’d pleaded with Geralt. 

Now, he’s fully grown, though not as old as he should’ve been had the decades deigned to touch him. He’s as tall as Geralt, body broad and well-muscled under a twilight blue ensemble that hugs his figure, the fabric draping down in graceful folds and complemented by a long, flowing cape. He’s grown into his features, an elegant sharpness in his face that hadn’t been there in his youth, his ears as pointed as ever.

No one would be able to mistake Julian for a human, but Geralt doesn’t draw his swords. He remembers the threat he’d levelled against Julian, remembers _I don’t know what you are, Julian, but I’m a witcher. It’s my duty to hunt monsters. If I ever see you again…_ and he sinks into the age-old regret. How had he ever thought Julian to be a monster, when Julian had never been anything less than kind and sweet and loving?

Geralt gazes at Julian, drinking in the sight of him - he’s here, he’s alive, he’s real - as he silently implores for forgiveness. For a second, something in the shape of Julian’s nose, in the shape of his jaw, in the tilt of his mouth tugs at Geralt’s mind, a flash of cornflower blue appearing before his eyes and a hum of music dancing past his ears, both disappearing after a moment as the sight of silver eyes reminds him that no, Jaskier isn’t here.

Jaskier isn’t here, but Julian is, and if Geralt can’t right two wrongs, he can at least try to right one. 

Julian’s eyes regard Geralt coldly. He’s relaxed, despite the fact that Geralt is a witcher and has two large swords on his back, clearly unconcerned about the danger that Geralt poses. His eyes flit over Geralt’s armour, taking in the silver sword and the hidden blades, but there’s no fear in his eyes, and a shiver runs down Geralt’s spine at the thought of how strong, how powerful Julian must be to be to be so unafraid when standing before a witcher. 

There are few beings who do not fear witchers. Humans fear witchers, with Jaskier being a notable exception, and monsters fear witchers and their silver swords. Those who do not fear witchers, Geralt recalls Vesemir saying, are the most dangerous of all. 

There’s no fear in Julian’s eyes. 

But this is Julian, and while he may have changed over the decades, he had never meant any harm to Geralt, and Geralt hates that he had ever thought otherwise. He remembers his last words to Julian, remembers _If I ever see you again_ , and he almost throws his swords to the ground and falls to his knees to plead for mercy.

If Julian hates him now, he more than deserves it. 

“How… interesting.” There’s a musical lilt to Julian’s voice, and when he speaks, Geralt’s medallion hums, but Geralt doesn’t reach for his swords. Julian is no threat, no monster, and Geralt _will_ rectify what he’d said so long ago. “Decades of not even stepping foot into the forest, but this winter, it seems that you’ve been coming rather often.”

Of course he’d known that Geralt had been visiting the clearing all winter. Julian had always seemed to simply _know_ whenever Geralt would enter the forest, and that clearly hasn’t changed. Geralt works his jaw, trying to figure out a response, desperate for Julian’s eyes to soften. Words had always come so easily to him around Julian, but now, under Julian’s frosty scrutiny, words die in his throat. 

“I…” Gods, where are his _words_? He knows what he needs to say, he knows that he needs to apologise for the awful words he’d said, ask for forgiveness for avoiding the forest for decades, tell Julian that Geralt misses him, so, so much, and he would give anything to have him back.

Julian stays silent, doesn’t prompt Geralt like he would’ve once upon a time, and Geralt hates it, hates this dynamic between them, so stilted and unnatural and _wrong_ , and he knows that it’s all his fault. 

“I miss you,” Geralt manages to grit out, forcing himself to lock eyes with Julian. 

Julian raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really, now? I thought it was your duty to hunt monsters like me.”

The words are delivered with biting harshness, and Geralt flinches back involuntarily, remembering the bitter taste of anger on his tongue when he’d spat those very same words at Julian. “Julian…”

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” Julian asks mockingly, pushing himself from the tree and stalking towards Geralt. His cape flutters behind him as he walks, and he spreads his arms wide, not a hint of fear in his scent even as he exposes himself to a witcher. “I’m here now. You’ve seen me again. Aren’t you going to make good on your threat, witcher?”

_Witcher_. Julian had never called him that, never with such seething poison in his voice, and Geralt longs for the gentle tone that he remembers, longs for the affectionate murmur of _pup_ , hating that _he_ had been the one to put the poison there. 

Geralt puts his hands up. “Julian, no, of course not,” he pleads. Julian can’t seriously think Geralt would hurt him, but then, can Geralt blame him? He’d known Julian for over a decade, had known that whatever Julian was, he meant no harm to Geralt, and yet, Geralt had drawn his silver sword on him, stating in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see Julian again. 

“No?” Julian asks, stopping a short distance away from Geralt, arms still spread to expose his chest. Geralt can hear the thumping of his heart, and the part of his mind conditioned by his training whispers to him that he could draw his sword and bury it into Julian’s chest in less than a second, and Geralt shakes the thought away, disgusted. 

“I wouldn’t, Julek.” Geralt reaches out a hand, longing to touch Julian in reassurance, but when Julian eyes his hand with something like disdain, Geralt retracts it, heart aching. “Please, you have to believe me.”

“Forgive me if I find it hard to believe,” Julian scoffs, the harsh sound reverberating through the clearing. “And you don’t get to call me that, Geralt. Julek is reserved for people who wouldn’t hunt me down like I’m nothing more than a mindless, murderous beast.”

Julian’s words hurt like an arrow striking his heart, and Geralt winces. Julek had always been Geralt’s nickname for Julian, reserved only for him, whispered in soft tones as they’d traded stories and laughed with wild abandon, and for Julian to take his nickname away from Geralt… it’s a rejection, a terribly painful rejection that tears at his heart, but Geralt can’t fault him for it - after all, it had been Geralt’s horrible words, his unforgivable actions, that had driven a permanent wedge between them.

_You don’t get to call me that_. It sounds final, but Geralt is _desperate_ to rectify his wrongdoings. He’d made the same mistake twice, and with Julian in front of him, Geralt vows to rectify at least one mistake, a mistake he’s regretted for decades.

“You’re not a mindless or murderous beast,” Geralt whispers, pained at the thought that Julian thinks that Geralt would think so low of him, that he would hunt Julian down, but then again, it’s his own fault, isn’t it? “I wouldn’t hunt you down, Julian. My words before - they were a mistake. I didn’t mean them.”

“Oh?” Julian asks, eyes narrowing. “I believe this is a few decades too late.”

Geralt hangs his head in shame. He wonders whether Julian had waited for him after - after. He wonders how long Julian had waited for Geralt to return, to realise his mistake - but Geralt had been foolish, and it took Renfri and Blaviken for him to realise just how horrible he’d been to his best friend. 

“I…” Geralt swallows, wilting under Julian’s gaze. “I was… I don’t…”

“Why are you _really_ here, Geralt?” Julian asks quietly. All traces of hostility have faded from his voice, and there’s only a pained weariness left. “Why here, why now?”

“I missed you,” Geralt replies honestly, and it _hurts_ to see the weariness in Julian’s eyes, knowing that Geralt had been the one to put them there. “And I… I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise, huh?” There’s scepticism in Julian’s voice, and guilt gnaws at Geralt, guilt that he’s only apologising now, decades after his mistake, guilt that his past actions are making Julian doubt that Geralt is truly apologising. 

“Yes.” Julian _has_ to see that Geralt is genuine, that Geralt truly regrets his actions. “I’m sorry for pulling away from you because the Path got hard. We were - we were close, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Julian had been on the receiving end of Geralt’s cruelty, his brash words and his foolishness. He’d been on the deadly end of Geralt’s silver sword, and Geralt wonders if Julian would ever forgive him for it. 

“You know, I wondered what I did to make you distant,” Julian murmurs, eyes far away and lost in memory. “I wondered what I did wrong -“

“You did nothing wrong,” Geralt interrupts fiercely, and Julian’s eyes snap to him, startled. “It was all me, and I - I took it out on you. And, Julian… I’m so, _so_ sorry for the words I said when we parted.”

Julian takes a step back, eyes hardening at the reminder, and Geralt blurts, “I _am_ sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to leave. You were my best friend, and I - you’d done nothing to deserve my anger.” Julian scoffs in derision, shaking his head, and Geralt reaches out, catching him by the arm. “You - you are _not_ a monster, I was wrong, I shouldn’t have told you to leave - I’ve regretted my words ever since.”

Julian blinks at Geralt’s hand on his arm before switching his gaze to Geralt’s eyes. He studies Geralt for a moment, and all Geralt can think is _pleasepleasepleaseJulekplease_. 

Then he shakes Geralt’s hand off his arm, lips twisting bitterly. “I don’t think… It’s not that easy, Geralt,” Julian whispers, gaze darting around. “I…”

“Tell me,” Geralt pleads. _Please_. “Tell me what I need to do for you to forgive me. We were… You meant so much to me, and I don’t want you gone from my life.”

He would do _anything_ -

“I was gone from your life for decades, and you never sought me out,” Julian points out, and he’s right, of course he is - Geralt had been a fool for not realising his mistake sooner, a coward for never daring to even step into the forest to attempt an apology. 

“And I regret that deeply,” Geralt whispers, longing to pull Julian into his arms but knowing that he’s lost that right. “I can’t reverse my mistakes, but I… I’ve missed you, and I want to - to be better.”

“It’s not…” Julian squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching. “It’s not that easy - I can’t, it’s… look, Geralt. It’s easier if I show you.”

Geralt is opening his mouth in confusion, but suddenly, Julian’s features start to blur, chaos humming lightly in the air, and when he opens his eyes, Geralt is staring into cornflower blue. 

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath. Jaskier stands before him, brown hair styled meticulously, his ears round and human, with no sign of too-sharp teeth, and Geralt _doesn’t understand_.

Is Julian mocking him, reminding him of the mistake he had committed twice, reminding him of how he does nothing but hurt those he’s close to? Why has Julian taken on Jaskier’s form? Is this a glamour, a cruel trick, revenge for what Geralt had done?

Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier since - since that day, high on the mountains, and now, he stands in front of Geralt where Julian had been mere seconds ago.

It’s -

Geralt opens his mouth. He closes it. Then opens it again. “What -”

“Do you see now, Geralt?” Their voices are the same, Geralt realises as Julian speaks, something aching and sad in his tone.

There’s a tug at the back of Geralt’s mind, but no, he _doesn’t see_. He doesn’t _understand_. “I…”

“You didn’t want to be friends with me as Julian,” Julian’s (Jaskier’s?) voice is soft and sad, so low that it almost seems like he’s talking to himself. “I saw you in Posada, and you looked lonelier than anyone I’d ever seen. I thought - maybe, if you wouldn’t have Julian _the monster_ as your friend, you might have Jaskier, the human bard.”

Julian - no, _Jaskier_ , shakes his head, blue eyes dropping to the forest floor, and everything is slotting into place in Geralt’s mind, the pieces adding up, and he almost doesn’t want to believe it, because if he’s right, then that would mean -

“But I was foolish.” Here, Jaskier lets out a broken laugh, a painful sound that makes Geralt, because Jaskier’s laugh is meant to be bright and cheerful, not pained and broken. “Gods, I thought - we had two more decades together, and I thought… but then you pushed me away.” _Again_ , is unspoken but Geralt hears it anyway, hanging in the air between them, and regret squeezes a tight fist around his heart. 

“Jul - Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, needing to reach out, needing to do _something_. “I didn’t… I - _please_.”

“Twice, Geralt.” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, refusing to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Of course, you didn’t know that, but… well. One would’ve thought that I would have learnt my lesson after the first time.”

Geralt had made two unforgivable mistakes in his life. Both mistakes had been against the same person, and Geralt wonders how Jaskier doesn’t hate him now, doesn’t sneer at him in hatred and spit at him and call him a heartless monster. But Jaskier still stands before him, and maybe - maybe Geralt has a chance to make this right. If Jaskier lets him, Geralt _will_ make it up to him. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Geralt implores, begs, pleads. “Not any of it.”

Jaskier’s voice is brittle when he murmurs, “You said it anyway.”

Geralt swallows. He had. He’d still said those horrible, devastating words, not once, but twice, and he wants to make amends, needs to beg for forgiveness, but - gods, _twice_ , he’d pushed Jaskier away with harsh, unforgivable words twice, and he can only hope that Jaskier accepts his apology, accepts his plea of friendship.

“I’m so sorry,” Geralt rasps, hand rising in desperate supplication. “I know these are just flimsy words in comparison to everything that I’ve said, but -” he swallows, gathers his courage. “I mean it, and there is nothing I want more than to make it up to you.”

Jaskier studies him silently, and Geralt forces himself not to bend under the burning scrutiny, continuing, “I’ve always appreciated your friendship -”

Jaskier’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “You have quite a way of showing it, don’t you?”

“I regret my words every day,” Geralt confesses, and allows his sincerity to pour into his words. _Please believe me_. “You are my friend - no, you were my best friend twice, and I threw that away.”

“You don’t need anyone. You made _that_ clear.”

“But I _do_ ,” Geralt says, reaching out to grab Jaskier’s hands in his. Jaskier lets him. “I need you, I’ve always needed you, and it took losing you to realise that.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away. “Geralt…”

“Please,” Geralt begs, holding on tighter. “I need you. You are my best friend, and if you allow it, I will show you this for the rest of my life.”

He can’t reverse the hurt he’d inflicted on Jaskier, but he can try and be _better_. 

“I thought I was a monster, and a shit-shoveller.” The words, words that Geralt had once said, words that had pushed Jaskier away and pierced deep into his heart, are uttered with flat, cold anger as Jaskier’s hands tense under Geralt’s. 

“No!” Geralt exclaims, horrified at having his own words thrown back at him, but he _had_ said those words, and they had cut deep. “You aren’t. You’re _you_ , and you’re not a monster. You - _I_ was the one who shovelled shit on myself, I shouldn’t have - I was wrong to blame you. I was wrong to yell at you.”

There’s something conflicted in Jaskier’s eyes as he looks at Geralt and takes in his words. “You know.” Jaskier pauses contemplatively, and Geralt’s hands once again clutch tightly around Jaskier’s, unwilling to let him go. 

“If you hadn’t…” Jaskier’s breathing stutters as he trails off, and his gaze flits away. “If you hadn’t yelled at me on the dragon hunt, I think I could’ve found it in myself to forgive you for what you said when we weren’t even twenty.”

Geralt’s heart squeezes at the words, regret and pain and self-loathing roiling within him. “Gods, I…”

“But you - you broke my heart twice, Geralt.” And there it is. Geralt stares at Jaskier, who looks steadily at him, not a single ounce of insincerity in his words. _You broke my heart twice_. That would mean… “I can’t - I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

_Twice._

There’s a heavy lump in Geralt’s throat, and he swallows thickly. “I’ll make it up to you.” His voice is faint, drowned out by the sound of his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Jaskier doesn’t trust him, and that _hurts_ , burning him from inside out, and his heart hammers a desperate beat underneath the spot where Jaskier’s key rests. “I promise I won’t -”

“How can I believe that?” Jaskier wrenches his hands out of Geralt’s grip, eyes distraught. He starts pacing, his eyes flickering between blue and silver, his ears going from rounded to pointed and back again. “You didn’t know it was me, of course, but experience has told me that you treat those who care about you carelessly. I don’t… I can’t…”

It breaks something in Geralt to hear that Jaskier can’t trust him anymore, and it’s his fault, _his fault_. Jaskier had placed his trust in Geralt, and Geralt had crushed it the same way he’d crushed Jaskier’s heart. _Twice_. 

He won’t do it again. If only Jaskier could give him _one more chance_ -

“I’ll show you,” Geralt pleads, voice tremulous. “I made the same mistake twice, and I’ve never regretted anything more - I’ll _show_ you that I’m willing to make amends.”

“You might say that now,” Jaskier agrees, stopping to turn and face Geralt. His face is weary, his mouth pulled into a tight line. “And I want to believe you, Geralt, I really do. But you can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again -”

“I - it _won’t_ , I’ll do anything -”

“And I refuse to let myself be broken at your hands a third time,” Jaskier continues, undeterred by Geralt’s interruption. “I put myself into your hands and… I cannot let you have that power over me. Not again.”

Geralt aches, the empty void within him gaping wide open, and he reaches for Jaskier. “Please, give me a chance, I -”

“ _Don’t_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says firmly, taking a step away from him. “This is… this is better for both of us. You’ve lived without me for decades now, and you can live without me for decades more.”

It sounds too much like a farewell, which - _no_ , Geralt thinks desperately. Jaskier can’t - if he leaves, Geralt thinks that he’ll _break_. 

“No, please,” Geralt babbles, desperation flooding him as he stumbles towards Jaskier, arms stretched out. “I’ll be better, I promise -”

Jaskier stops him with a hand against his chest, eyes sad as his other hand reaches up to trace over Geralt’s face, his touch lingering for a moment before he pulls away, and Geralt is too stunned by the gentle touch to react. 

“I want to take you up on that promise, but it’s better if I save us both another round of hurt,” Jaskier whispers with pain in his eyes, and there’s something final in his voice, and _please, no_ \- “Goodbye, Geralt.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into thin air like he’d never been there in the first place, with the lingering scent of nature and wildflowers the only sign that he’d been there at all, and a choked cry wrenches from Geralt’s throat. 

“No!” he cries, but nobody answers. A gentle breeze whispers through the clearing, and a bird chirps in the trees overhead, but otherwise, the world is silent, and Jaskier is _gone_. 

“ _No_ ,” Geralt repeats, soft and pained, and he sits down hard, burying his face in his hands. Julian’s - Jaskier’s key burns against his chest, searing a brand over his heart, a reminder of what he has thrown away, of what he has lost. 

Why can’t he do anything - _anything_ right?

He stays there until the sun sinks below the horizon, until the sky is dotted with stars and the moon casts a silver glow over the clearing, drowning in his anguish and misery and guilt. 

Jaskier had given him one last gentle touch before he left, caressing his face while gazing at him with mournful eyes, and Geralt’s chest twinges at the thought that this might be the last time Jaskier will ever touch him, the last time that he’ll ever see Jaskier, and he can’t bear the thought.

He can’t lose Jaskier. Not again.

_Goodbye, Geralt_. 

But maybe he already has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i must stress that there _will_ be a happy ending! and i’m sorry to leave this on a cliffhanger, but you won’t need to wait a month bc the next chapter is already written out, and i’m only a few thousand words from the end!
> 
> currently, the rest of the fic is being written in geralt’s pov, but if people want jaskier’s pov, i may consider writing that as well, so tell me what you think<3
> 
> also, yes, i _will_ update the **i am made of memories** series, but only once i complete this fic - sorry for the delay!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, THE WRITER UPDATES

When he finally walks back up to Kaer Morhen, steps slow and laboured, Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever felt so heavy, his grief and guilt weighing down every step. After enduring Geralt pushing him away twice, Jaskier has finally decided to step back from their friendship, has finally decided to leave, and it _hurts_ , even though Geralt knows that he deserves it.

Jaskier’s farewell is an ache deep in his bones, an empty hollow in his heart, and it’s horrible, and Geralt _can’t lose him_. The memory of Jaskier’s sad eyes as he bids Geralt a final farewell lingers in Geralt’s mind, sends waves of utter devastation coursing through him, and Geralt _can’t lose him_.

He can’t live without Jaskier, not again, and he can’t bear the thought of never seeing Jaskier again, never seeing his bright smile and his kind eyes, never hearing his musical voice and his joyous laughter, never feeling his gentle touches and warm embraces. Jaskier is his best friend, his everything, and Geralt needs him, and he resolves to do anything and everything to prove to Jaskier that he means it, that he wants their friendship back and won’t hurt him ever again.

He’d lost Jaskier twice, both times due to his own stupidity and foolishness. He won’t let that happen a third time. 

As Geralt lays in his bed that night, replaying the memory of Jaskier’s farewell over and over, a plan grows in his mind. Jaskier won’t seek him out, not after how they’d parted, but Jaskier has always known whenever Geralt shows up in the clearing, or even in the forest. If Jaskier is somehow aware of his presence, maybe… maybe Geralt can prove his dedication if he stays there. It’s not much, certainly not as grand of a gesture as Geralt would like, but it’s the only thing he can do if Jaskier stays away.

He’s desperate to do anything, _anything_ , that would give him a chance of getting Jaskier back, and he has no idea what he’s going to do beyond staying in the clearing, but it’s _something_. 

The next morning, Geralt greets his brothers, who are readying themselves to head back out onto the Path, as he walks over to Vesemir.

“I, uh, I think I’m going to stay here for a while this year,” Geralt says sheepishly.

Vesemir gives him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to head back out on the Path just yet,” Geralt explains, wringing his hands. “I think… I want to rest for some time.”

It's not the reason why he’s staying, but Vesemir seems to buy it, his face softening, and he pats Geralt on the shoulder. “Well, feel free to stay as long as you’d like. I know you’ve been through a lot, and you deserve a break.”

“I’ll be back on the Path once I can,” Geralt promises. He’ll stay for as long as it takes.

“Of course,” Vesemir agrees, and sends him a small smile. “Just don’t wreck the keep. I’ll put you through extra training next winter if you ruin anything.”

Geralt chuckles softly. “I won’t, Vesemir. Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself,” Vesemir responds, heading over to where Lambert and Eskel are fiddling with their packs.

Geralt bids farewell to his family, watching as they disappear down the trail before he heads back into his room. He packs his belongings, bringing things that he normally wouldn’t take on the Path, things like a warm blanket and a thicker, more comfortable bedroll. Jaskier’s key is tucked under his clothes, and he wraps his fingers around it and pulls it out, displaying it proudly on his chest for everyone to see.

He heads to the stables and slings his pack on Roach, who bumps her head against him, and Geralt smiles sadly. She’d been irritable ever since he’d left Jaskier on that mountain, likely missing Jaskier’s quiet affection and the sugar cubes he would sneak to her while Geralt would pretend not to know. 

“You miss him too, huh?” he murmurs, stroking her mane, and she bucks against his hand. “Well, let’s go get him back, shall we?”

He leads Roach into the forest, through familiar trees until he emerges in the clearing. It’s empty, devoid of light and laughter without Jaskier’s presence, and it’s _wrong_ \- it’s not supposed to be so hollow, so bleak. 

Geralt resolves to change that.

He clears a spot on the ground, setting up a small camp. He’ll be here for a while.

Geralt stays in the clearing, sleeping on his bedroll, and during the day, he wanders the forest, familiarising himself once again with the nooks and crannies of it. Once, he’d known it like the back of his hand; now, after decades, some of the landscape is unfamiliar, with plants and trees that had grown in his absence, and Geralt learns it all, committing the forest to memory as he takes Roach through the trees, remembering his childhood at every turn.

This cluster of bushes had been where Jaskier had once kissed him, pressing a small bouquet of flowers into his hand. This small hollow had once been Jaskier’s favourite hiding place when they would play, young and wild and free. This oak tree, strong and sturdy even after decades, that they would often climb up, sitting on its branches as laughter and chatter filled the air. 

The forest had once been his home. Now, drifting and alone, Geralt makes it his home once more. 

He has no doubt that Jaskier knows he’s here. He’d always known whenever Geralt had entered the forest, after all, and even now, Geralt doubts that this has changed, even if Jaskier refuses to seek him out. 

He wonders if Jaskier can hear him. It’s a thought that flutters in his mind at night, when he’s stoking a fire, and as he gazes into the flickering flames, soft wisps of smoke curling up to the sky, he finds himself murmuring, “I miss you. I miss you so much, Julek, Jaskier, and I’m sorry, so sorry. I… I can’t lose you.”

Perhaps Jaskier can hear him. 

So, every night, as Geralt sits beside a campfire, he talks, and he hopes that Jaskier is listening.

He talks about the fondness of his childhood memories with Julian, talks about how they used to run and play and laugh. He talks about how much Julian’s smiles and tender touches had meant to him, how much they still mean to him, and he tells the forest that he’s beyond grateful that there’s someone who doesn’t touch him like he’s a monster, a mutant, someone to be feared.

“Julek,” he whispers, achingly sad, longing for simpler times, times when they’d been young and happy, unburdened by the decades. “Julek. You were… you are my best friend. Gods, we - we were _so_ happy.”

He chokes out the story of the werewolf and the bruxa, with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the rustling of leaves accompanying his voice. He talks about the grieving mother and the furious father, voice growing soft as he recounts the slaughter of the village.

He apologises for pushing Julian away. _There are no good monsters out there, witcher. Learn to do your job, and kill them._ It’s no excuse, and he tells that to the night sky, regret pouring into his voice as he talks about how Julian had only ever been kind and loving, never meaning any harm, and Geralt’s foolishness and brashness had ruined it all.

“I was young, and I made - I made so many mistakes.” Mistakes that he can never take back, that he can only hope that Jaskier will forgive him for. “Losing you… losing you broke me, and it was all my fault, my foolishness blinding me to the truth. And after… for decades, there was something missing in me.”

He talks about the pain of the Path, the loneliness and emptiness of it, how humans would hiss and snarl and spit at him, how they would chase him out of town for no reason other than being a witcher. He whispers of the aching hollowness carved out within him that had grown day by day without a gentle touch, a kind word, a warm smile. 

“I didn’t realise just how much you did for me until I lost you,” Geralt tells the cool night air, his loneliness as visceral as it had been after he’d first lost Julin. “No one ever treated me like you did, like I was… like I was worth something. Like I was more than a monster.”

His voice breaks when he recalls Blaviken, the memory of Renfri’s body surfacing in his mind, and he stumbles through his realisation, the guilt and grief that had overtaken him as he finally recognised his mistake, as he finally realised that not all monsters needed to be killed, that monsters were nothing more than what human made of them. 

“She could’ve changed,” he croaks out, his arms heavy with the memory of cradling Renfri’s body. “Stregobor called her a monster, but she - she wasn’t. Neither were you, and I killed her, and I lost you. I thought… I thought that no one would ever treat me the way you did again.”

Then he talks about Jaskier. He talks about finding a bard in Posada, the only person he’d met other than Julian who hadn’t feared him for being a witcher, for being the Butcher of Blaviken, the only other person who’d been willing to get close to him.

Geralt stares at the fire and tells it about how he’d wanted to push Jaskier away, to prevent him from being hurt. After all, all Geralt does is hurt people. He smiles sadly as he recounts how, despite his attempts to push Jaskier away, Jaskier had persisted, never leaving his side, and Geralt had been helpless against him, unable to stop himself from falling hard and deep.

He talks about the soft, tender moments during their travels, talks about their easy banter, about Jaskier’s gentle touches and soft, sweet smile reserved only for Geralt. Geralt smiles when he recounts the times Jaskier had gotten into fights and brawls against those who had spat at or insulted Geralt, and it’s with a pang in his heart that Geralt whispers about how Jaskier had been the only person who would ever defend a witcher so readily.

“You were good to me,” Geralt murmurs, holding the memory of cornflower blue eyes in his mind. “You never left, and you filled that empty ache in my heart. You were right here, with me, and I never realised. And I - and then I…”

He pours out his regret over what he’d said on the mountain, after the dragon hunt, squeezing his eyes shut at the memory of Jaskier’s pained gaze, a heartbreak in his expression that Geralt had inflicted a second time. 

“All I do is _hurt_ ,” he chokes out, tears burning at the edges of his eyes. “I hurt everything I touch, everyone I love, and I’m so, so sorry for hurting you. I’m so sorry for pushing you away, because I never wanted that. I can’t - please, Jaskier, I can’t lose you again.”

The next words are a plea, carried on the slight breeze, heard only by the trees of the forest. “Please come back to me.”

He talks to the campfire. He talks to the forest, talks to the night sky, dotted with shining stars, and hopes that somewhere, wherever he is, Jaskier is listening.

* * *

One morning, he sits up in his bedroll, ready to start his day, when he suddenly realises how bare the clearing is, with only a few weeds blooming at the bottom of trees, dull and empty without Jaskier to bring it to life. Then he spots a lone dandelion growing next to his bedroll, swaying lightly in a soft breeze, a small burst of life in the middle of the clearing, and Geralt decides, on impulse, to plant a garden, decides to bring brightness and colour to this place which holds so many fond, sweet memories.

Geralt is a witcher. He’s not a gardener or farmer, untrained in anything but the skills of a witcher, but he’s listened to Jaskier babble about how plants are grown, has listened to Yennefer talking about her garden of herbs for her spells, and he tries.

Geralt walks around the forest, wandering through the trees and taking note of the flowers that grow from the forest floor, winding around tree trunks, blooming from shrubs and bushes. He plucks them as gently as he can, roots and all, and replants them in the clearing. 

At first, many of the flowers wilt, and a traitorous voice in his mind whispers to him that all he can do is _destroy and kill and hurt_ , and he almost gives up, but…

Jaskier’s stricken face flashes through his mind, his eyes sad and pained as he murmurs, _goodbye, Geralt_ , and Geralt’s resolve strengthens. 

He _will_ prove his devotion to Jaskier. He refuses to give up so easily.

It takes time, and it takes many failures on Geralt’s part, but slowly, the once-bare clearing becomes a colourful garden of vibrant blossoms, from roses to sunflowers to tulips, bringing light and life to the place that holds some of Geralt’s fondest memories.

As Geralt looks over the garden he’s grown, he hopes that Jaskier is watching him from wherever he is now. He hopes that Jaskier likes it.

Geralt waters his flowers daily, taking water from the nearby stream, and he tends to each and every one of them with careful hands. They bloom and grow under his care, and soon, the clearing is _bursting_ with life, bursting with colour and vivacity, with animals and birds winding their way through the flowers, bees and butterflies fluttering around the brightly-coloured petals, and Geralt feels _warm_ , knowing that he’d been the one to bring life to this place.

He has hurt many people, and Jaskier has been the subject of it far too many times. As Geralt brushes his fingers over a patch of bluebells, he vows never to do so again. This garden has proved that he’s capable of bringing life, capable of being gentle and caring, and hopefully - hopefully Jaskier is looking at him.

Growing a garden isn’t enough to make up for his mistakes, but it’s a start.

Several weeks pass like this. Geralt still talks to the forest every night, the campfire his only witness as he talks his voice hoarse, recalling his fondest memories, stumbling through his feelings, pouring his heart out and murmuring his regret. 

He doesn’t know if Jaskier hears him, or acknowledges him, but Geralt continues anyway, continues cultivating his garden and talking to the forest, hoping and hoping that perhaps Jaskier will come back.

Then he wakes up one morning with the scent of wildflowers even stronger than usual, and he bolts upright. Jaskier is perching at the top of the rock formation, his human glamour gone as he regards Geralt with wary silver eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, the sight of Jaskier chasing the bleariness from his eyes as he stumbles to his feet, a heavy tension easing from his heart as he drinks in the sight of Jaskier before him. Jaskier is _here_ , he’s actually here, and hope grows tentatively in Geralt’s heart. 

Maybe he still has a chance.

Jaskier doesn’t move, his eyes flicking from Geralt to take in the garden, a rainbow of blooming blossoms sprawling across the clearing, and Geralt’s heart pounds loudly.

After a few stretched-out seconds of tense silence, Geralt waiting with his heart in his throat, Jaskier murmurs, “Nice garden.”

His voice is even, giving nothing away as his gaze moves along the rows of flowers, tracing over buttercups and peonies and dahlias. Geralt is unable to decipher the expression in those silver eyes, and gods, what if Jaskier hates it?

“Yeah,” he croaks, and clears his throat nervously. Jaskier still isn’t looking at him, and he continues, fumbling. “It’s - uh. I wanted… I thought it would be nice to bring a bit of colour here.”

Jaskier inclines his head, but doesn’t respond.

“I…” For weeks, Geralt had talked to the forest without reserve, words spilling from his mouth as he talked about everything he’d ever wanted to tell Jaskier, but now, with Jaskier in front of him, words fail him yet again. “I hoped that I could - that you would like it.”

_Please, please don’t hate it._

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, gaze fixed on the garden, and Geralt barely breathes as he waits. When he finally looks back at Geralt, his face is guarded. 

“Why are you doing this?” Jaskier demands, voice steely. His eyes flicker down to Geralt’s chest, where the key is proudly displayed on top of his shirt, and he sucks in a breath, but his face remains impassive.

Displaying the key openly is a poor way to make up for what he’d done, but Geralt desperately hopes that Jaskier sees his regret for pushing him away, his desire to have Jaskier by his side again. 

Geralt wonders where Jaskier’s own key is. He sneaks a glance to where the key would hang, and despair eats away at him when he notices that Jaskier isn’t wearing the key, his unbuttoned silk shirt displaying a bare chest, and Geralt can’t blame him from not wearing the token of their friendship, _something to remember me by_ , not after what Geralt had done.

One day, if Geralt does this right, if he can prove that he truly won’t push Jaskier away a third time, maybe Jaskier will wear his key again. 

Squaring his shoulders, he says, “I said I would make it up to you.” Jaskier’s gaze is cold, but Geralt forces himself not to flinch away from it. “I know this doesn’t mean much, but… I want to prove to you that I’m willing to try.”

“So you grew a garden,” Jaskier says flatly, tipping his head at the sprawl of flowers and plants. 

“For you,” Geralt mumbles, willing Jaskier to see his sincerity. “I wanted… this doesn’t make up for what I said. But I - I…”

“Why a garden?” Jaskier asks. His silver eyes glow as the hum of chaos fills the air, and suddenly, a few green buds poke out of the ground at his feet, swiftly growing and unfurling into a patch of bright yellow sunflowers, and Geralt looks on in awe at how effortlessly Jaskier manipulates nature, how easily he coaxes life out of the ground. 

There’s something challenging in the tilt of Jaskier’s chin as he continues staring at Geralt, as if daring him to draw his sword at the display of magic. But Geralt has learned from his mistakes, knows that he’d once said words that had cut deep, so he keeps still, letting Jaskier see his awe, letting Jaskier see that he feels no apprehension at the magic he’d just witnessed. 

He’d said that he wouldn’t kill Jaskier simply for being inhuman, and he intends to keep the promise. He’d made that mistake once, and he won’t make it again. 

Geralt swallows. “I wanted to bring something beautiful here,” he confesses. This clearing, so full of fond, wonderful memories, deserves light and beauty. “You always loved flowers, and I thought - I thought it would be fitting.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier agrees, and Geralt’s heart soars. 

“I - I know this doesn’t prove anything,” Geralt stutters. “I - uh -”

He stumbles to his feet and walks through the garden, aware of Jaskier’s eyes tracking his every movement. He reaches his hand in clusters of cornflowers, irises, bluebells, delphiniums, forget-me-nots, and plucks a few sprigs of each. Then he makes his way over to Jaskier and holds the small bouquet of flowers out to him, and Jaskier stares at him with wide eyes, gaze darting from Geralt’s face to the flowers and back again.

“Here,” Geralt rasps, and he’s abruptly thrown back to a memory from so long ago, when he’d given a single bluebell to Julian with heat flushing his cheeks, then pulling a smiling Julian into a sweet, clumsy kiss. Geralt’s heart aches at the fond memory from so long ago, longing to put such a smile on Jaskier’s face once again. 

Jaskier’s gaze slowly trails down to the flowers, and he reaches out, brushing his fingers over the petals tentatively. The flowers brighten under his touch, curving towards him, and Geralt can’t help but sway slightly towards Jaskier as well, drawn helplessly to him like a moth to a flame.

“Why are you doing this, Geralt?” Jaskier asks again, but this time, there’s something vulnerable in his voice, something pained, his lips twisting into an unhappy frown. “I don’t… Why?”

Geralt yearns to reach out and touch him, longs to wipe the frown from his face and chase the pain from his voice, but he’d been the one to push Jaskier away, and he can’t touch Jaskier, not unless Jaskier allows him, and he aches with the loss.

“I wish to have you by my side again,” Geralt says softly, and Jaskier’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “If you want me to stop, I will. But I - I made two unforgivable mistakes, and I hurt you beyond measure twice, and I wish - I want nothing more than to make it up to you.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, and one of the forget-me-nots loses its colour, shrivelling and wilting. “Geralt, you…”

“I want to prove that I’m devoted to you,” Geralt continues desperately, voice wavering. “I was unforgivably cruel, and for that, I’m truly, truly sorry. There is nothing - _nothing_ I regret more.”

Jaskier lets out a shaky exhale, his fingers trembling from where they’re still hovering over the flowers. “I’m - I want to believe you,” he whispers. He withdraws his hand, clenching it into a tight fist. “I _do_. But both times I’ve known you, we both ended up hurt and broken, and gods, Geralt, you’re trying _so hard_ , but I - we -”

“I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again,” Geralt chokes out, and Jaskier’s face shutters, closes off, but Geralt pushes on. “I’m not… I know I… I’ve made many mistakes, but I’m determined to _try_ , and I want to make this work.”

Jaskier’s knuckles turn white, and his voice is tight when he says, “I don’t know if it can.”

“It _will_ ,” Geralt pleads. “I’m willing to try, Jaskier, please - _please_ give me a chance.”

“I…”

Geralt falls to his knees, his hands still thrust forward as he continues holding out the bouquet to Jaskier. “I know I’ve treated you terribly, and I understand if you won’t ever forgive me.” Jaskier is staring at him, mouth open slightly, and Geralt can see the conflict in his eyes, so he pours every ounce of sincerity and regret and love into his words. “I’ll show you. Please let me show you.”

“Get - get up,” Jaskier says, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, you can’t just -”

Geralt doesn’t get up. “You are the only person who’s ever _seen_ me.” A heartfelt plea, a confession. Not to the campfire this time, not to the forest, but to Jaskier, who’s right here, standing before him. “No one has _ever_ meant as much to me as you do, and I intend to show you that.”

Jaskier reaches out and hauls Geralt to his feet with inhuman strength, and Geralt _burns_ at the contact, longing to have _more_ , wanting to sink into Jaskier’s touch forever. “Gods, I’m so weak for you that it’s pathetic,” he mutters under his breath, voice trembling. “You say these words, and I - what am I supposed to do?”

Geralt stays silent as Jaskier closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, his shoulders stiff and tense. When he opens his eyes, he slowly brings up his arm and grasps that bouquet, his fingers warm as they brush against Geralt’s hand.

“I’ll regret this,” Jaskier says, tone resigned. “But I’ve always been weak for you, Geralt, and you know that, don’t you? I’ll always give in to you, and I - I’ve always placed my heart in your hands far too easily.”

“I won’t break it,” Geralt vows, and Jaskier smiles, a broken and brittle thing, but brimming with hope at the edges, and Geralt makes a promise to himself.

He won’t crush that hope. He won’t crush Jaskier’s heart in his hands, not ever again.

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees softly. He takes the bouquet, cradling it to his chest, and Geralt lets his hand fall to his side as hope turns warm within him, hope that Jaskier will let Geralt show him that he _means_ it. “Alright. I - yeah.”

Geralt has to curl his fingers into fists to prevent himself from reaching out and taking Jaskier’s face in his hands, suppressing the overwhelming urge to _touch_. “Thank you,” he chokes out, so utterly grateful that Jaskier is giving him a chance. He won’t waste it. “I’ll prove myself to you. I’ll prove myself a true friend, a -” _partner_ , he almost says, but he doesn’t deserve to say that, not yet, “- a worthy travel companion.”

Jaskier had said those words to him on the dragon hunt, his tone tentatively hopeful, but Geralt had been too consumed by his own thoughts to notice the _meaning_ behind the words at the time. Jaskier had been offering his heart to Geralt once again, and Geralt had crushed it with cruel, callous words.

He won’t let that happen this time.

The petals of the flowers tremble in Jaskier’s hand. “A worthy - _right_.” His throat bobs. “I’ll just…”

Jaskier’s gaze darts away, and Geralt yearns to touch him and pull him in his arms but - not now. He’ll prove his worth, and _then_ he’ll let himself indulge in Jaskier’s warm touch but - not now.

“Thank you for the garden, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, his soft voice brushing past Geralt’s ears. “I have to leave now, but… I’ll see you later.”

And then he vanishes like he’d done last time, the scent of wildflowers strong in the air, but this time - this time isn’t a farewell. Not a permanent one. 

_I’ll see you later_. 

Geralt smiles, soft and fond, as something flutters in his chest, a growing, blooming thing. 

It’s hope, Geralt thinks. Hope that while this isn’t much, it’s a step forward. Hope that Jaskier is accepting him, accepting his attempts and his apology,

Hope, because before Jaskier had left, the flowers clutched in his hand had been in full bloom, the previously wilted forget-me-not bright and vibrant with life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see? angst with a happy ending!
> 
> i'm so sorry for not updating this fic for so long, i've actually had the chapter written for ages but i never posted it for some reason, so here it is!
> 
> and i know i've been posting some femslash fic lately, but i'm still writing geraskier ofc! i'm extremely busy this school year so updates will come slow, but i don't intend to abandon any of my wips, and i'll keep posting oneshots (i have a oneshot that's currently on anon as part of a challenge, but it will be revealed in a couple days, so keep an eye out for that!)

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr [@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


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